Draco Malfoy, Muggle
by Jacob Oliver
Summary: H/D Slash. When Draco Malfoy wakes in the streets of Muggle London with no magic, he slowly realises that his existence has been erased. With the help of Harry Potter, he begins to unravel the mystery, involving murder, conspiracy, and dark folk-magic. 7th Year AU.
1. 1 Draco Malfoy

**Draco Malfoy, Muggle**

**by Jacob Oliver**

**Chapter 1. Draco Malfoy.**

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><p>I hadn't opened my eyes yet, but I knew something was terribly wrong. Firstly, there was a strong and unmistakable stench of fresh urine in the air<em>. <em>I thought, 'Good God, Draco, you've gone and wet the bed, and it's a bloody cashmere duvet.' But then I also smelt some rather low-end brandy―E&J or Paul Masson―and I thought, 'Right, it's not me. I wouldn't be caught dead.' Whoever or whatever was emitting these most unspeakable odors, poked at me and asked me if I was alive.

I opened my eyes, and above me was the night sky, which, indeed, was signal number two that I was in fact in a most uncanny predicament. A drunken, beardy vagabond, who'd apparently just wet his trousers, asked me if I could spare a quid or two. I looked around and saw not far away a huge iron gate, black and gold;―not a patch on Malfoy Manor's balustrade, but acceptable, nonetheless. Oh hell. Apparently, I was in front of Buckingham Palace, sprawled on the steps of Queen Vic's Memorial.

Shit.

London.

But that's miles and miles from home. How―?

A few pigeons scurried past. Naturally, I remained perfectly calm. I didn't scream or panic. I simply stood up, shoved the homeless man down the steps, and took off running.

I never had been in Muggle London by myself prior. It's always been with Mother, and generally it's a visit to Harrods (Father disapproves, but Mother will have her way). In any case, I had no idea what was going on. Last I remember, I was in my bed at the Manor, having just finished a warm skim milk and a chapter of _Sons and Lovers_, and now apparently I was some hundred miles away, having narrowly escaped the clutches of a urine-soaked drunk. I wound up running to a main road somewhere beside a strange building called McDonalds or something Scottish. Several people were still out, apparently. A group of young night-owls passed by―tarts in mini-skirts and stiletto heels, despite rather a bitter winter frost; their thuggish boyfriends with shaved heads and scars from, no doubt, street battles, which their strata does so often engage in. A particularly nasty-looking one of the bunch said, "You looking at my bird?", and he cracked his knuckles to mean business.

"Yes, I was," I said, as I surreptitiously reached for my wand in my back pocket. "If it's no bother, may I ask how much she charges by the hour?" He towered over me, this brute with broad shoulders, and it was at that mortifying moment I realised, in fact, that I did not have my wand after all, and, secondly, that I was about to suffer a rather tragic death by the hands of an underclass street hooligan. What I _hadn't_ planned for was the bimbo removing her hoop earrings, leaping onto me, and pounding my face to the dirt. She took me by the hair and repeatedly smashed my forehead into the curbside; after which she kicked me with her stiletto heel and spit on me, right where I was bleeding most profusely. I didn't cry, when they left. Not very much at all.

Well, now I was bloody, dirty, wandless, and still miles from home, and I had no means of contacting my parents. I thought, 'What ever shall I do?', when it occurred to me, in my woozy and blearied state, that I could likely head over to Platform 9 ¾ at King's Cross and seek help there. Inspired by this new-found resolve, I hobbled over to Victoria Station, sneaked under the ticket gate, and I was soon down the steps at the Tube platform. Funny how people stare when you're bleeding down your face, but don't care to ask if you need a tissue or emergency services. Bloody _London_.

I got on the train, and we whizzed towards King's Cross Station. An inebriated youth in tracksuit bottoms offered me a sip of vodka and told me how "heavy" he considered my gash to be. I hadn't a blithering clue what he meant, but I took the swig anyway. I needed it.

When I finally reached King's Cross, I made my way to the partition that led to Platform 9 ¾. Fortunately, the area was more-or-less empty of people, and so I confidently strode into the brick wall, and smashed my teeth into it. An expletive or two may have escaped.

"Are you alright?" It was a man's voice. I turned around, and God be praised, I recognised him to be one of the ticket-takers of the Hogwarts Express. He asked what happened had to me, why I was so terribly bloody and hurt, but I hadn't the patience for irrelevant chit-chat.

"Will the train be running to Wiltshire this evening?" I asked.

"Yes," he said, "but you need to heal yourself up first, mate. Come on, and let's get to the platform. I know a quick cleaning charm for that wound. You don't want it getting infected." He walked through the partition. I followed and got a face full of wall yet again; and had to hold my head trying to stop the world from spinning. After a moment, the conductor popped back out.

"I can't seem to get in," I said.

"But it's wide open." He put his hand through the wall to show me.

I tried to do same, but it was solid against my palm. "I don't bloody understand."

I saw his expression suddenly change, a glint of something like suspicion in his eye. "You can't get through," he said, slowly.

"Did you find that out all my yourself, or did the fact that my nose is almost completely caved-in tip you off?"

"You're a Muggle."

"What!" This was outrageous. How dare he insinuate that a Malfoy was anything less than pureblooded; much less a _Muggle_. "I'll have you know," I said, poking a firm finger into his sternum, "that my genealogy as a wizard goes back as far as the Iron Age. What about yours? 1985, is it?"

"Then why can't you get through the wall?"

"For Christ's sake, I don't know!"

"What's your name?"

"Draco Malfoy," I said, then added for good measure―"Lucius Malfoy's son; so you had better start treating me with the respect I'm due."

He laughed at me. "Now I _know_ you're lying. Lucius Malfoy never had a child."

The man must have gone mad. Well, he could count on my Father writing to his supervisor. Then, all of a sudden, he took his wand out and pointed it at me. I stumbled backwards. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"I'm going Obliviate your memory of this incident."

"You can't do that! It's illegal!"

"It's illegal to Obliviate wizards. Not Muggles."

There again with this Muggle business. "I'm not a bloody Muggle, you ticket-taking cretin! I'm a wizard! I'm a Malfoy!" I shouted.

"I have no idea how you found out about Platform 9 ¾, but you'll be forgetting all about it soon. _Obliviate!_"

Seeker agility at the ready, I evaded it with grace.

"Obliviate! Obliviate! Obliviate!"

I was running now, side-winding, and eventually I lost him. I leant my back against a pillar, panting and trying to remain as silent as I could, when I felt his hand on my shoulder. The bastard's faster than I took him for. I turned around and punched him in the face.

...or rather, I punched a policewoman in the face just as she was asking me 'What the trouble was, son?'

Well, it was the second time this evening I was tackled by a woman. She had her knee on my shoulder, and it really wasn't doing much for my masculinity. Did you know handcuffs are made of steel? I've never worn any accessory outside of the precious metals. It really was most unprepossessing.

* * *

><p>Well, they "finger-printed" me, whatever the hell that's for, and then they took my picture, for which they didn't even let me fix my hair. Very inconsiderate. And the doctor fellow cleaned up my wound with some medieval torture liquid that apparently burns it into submission.<p>

They told me I could make a telephone call. I stood in front of a strange device and had no idea what to make of it. But hold on;―yes, of course! We had learned about this in Muggle Studies. I'd talked through most of the lecture, and sneered, but I remembered now that it was a means of Muggle communication, like the Floo Network. I surveyed the telephone machine for a moment. It said, "Dial 0 for Operator Assistance." I picked it up, placed it on my ear, as I remember Professor Burbage demonstrating for us, and dialed 0.

"Operator," I heard come from the telephone machine.

"Erm, hello?"

"Who would you like to be connected with, please?"

Who, indeed? I didn't know any Muggles. The only people I could think of who might own this ugly contraption would be... Jumping Jehovah. Either Harry Potter or Hermione Granger. Well, this was fantastic. Should I prefer the guy who hates my bones to come fetch me, or the girl who hates my marrow. Well, I had no idea where Granger lived; but I did once overhear Potter complaining about how much he hated living in Surrey. That's what, an hour away? "Harry Potter. Surrey."

"There are two H. Potters in Surrey, and there's a Harry Potter listed under Dursley. Which would you like?"

That's right;―Potter lives with his relatives. "The Dursley listing, please."

"Connecting you to that listing. Thank you."

The phone began making an irritating chirping noise for a while, then―

"Hello?" It was Potter! He sounded rather groggy. There was also the distant shouting of an apparently incensed man saying, Didn't I know what the cunting time was. What a poet his uncle must be.

"Potter! Thank God!"

"Is this―? _Malfoy_?" Shock in his voice. "What on earth?" He paused and then―"You know how to use a telephone?"

"Potter, shut up and listen to me. I'm in jail. A Muggle jail in London. I need you to―what did they call it?―'bail me out.' Two hundred and fifty pounds."

I could hear him choke on the other end.

"I'm good for it, Potter! And I'll pay you back double. Just get me out of here! It's the Westminster Police Station."

"You're mental, Malfoy, if you think I have two hundred pound fifty just lying around my bedroom. Anyway, why me? Couldn't you ring up your parents? ― Okay, stupid question. But, honestly, Malfoy, what do you expect me to do?"

A moustachioed officer came in. "Time's up, Longbottom."

"Longbottom?" Harry said. "You gave them a false name?"

"Well, they don't know who he is, do they? I had to think on the spot. Look, just get me out!"

"I don't have the money. And London's nearly thirty miles away! Sorry, Malfoy, but you're on your own."

"Potter, you little twerp, I swear to God, if you leave me here―!"

"Hey! Time's up, Longbottom! Are you deaf?" He took me by the arm and began to drag me away. Glazed icing on his fingers. I wondered if there was a place to wash up.

"Potter! Potter! You come down here now!"

And then I was in a prison cell. Concrete all around, no windows, just a bench and a mat and a disgusting metal toilet with a broken handle. The ambiance of Hell, basically. I called out, "Excuse but I think the mattress needs washing. In fact, while you do that, can you give the toilet a scrub, as well?"

The moustachioed cop walked over. "And what would you like for dinner? Waldorf salad and tenderloin steak?"

I said, "Thank you, but I'm allergic, actually. Would it be weird to ask for no walnuts? No;―I sha'n't be fussy. I'll pick them out myself."

He buggered off, but in a short while he was back. He opened the bar doors, shoving in a man about six foot and built like a brick house. He had immense arms and a broad, bristly face. Waldorf salad he was not.

He smiled at me.

_Harry Potter, if I end up getting raped because you wouldn't come down here, I'll kill you and all your friends._

The bars were shut again, and there we were,―alone. He pulled out a packet of cigarettes and lit up. He offered me one, but I was too concerned about whether I'd need to pay him back for it―and _how_. "Suit yourself, kid," he said, and after a moment―"What are you in for?"

I didn't think to embellish, but I should have said that I killed a man with my bare hands. "I―I hit a p-policewoman." Did I just stutter? Damnation. Malfoys don't stutter. Get a hold of yourself, Draco. You've not been in the pen a half hour and you're already cracking up. Did I just call it the bloody _pen_?

"Nice one," he said, taking a long drag. "I hate coppers."

"And you? What are you in for?" I deepened my voice and attempted to sound hardened. Whatever the hell that sounds like.

"Rape."

Oh, good.

"R-r-r-rape?" I'm fairly certain I just went up four octaves.

"Well, and aggravated assault."

He really wasn't all that bad a chap, once you've had a chat with him; even though he did rape somebody. Turns out he picked up a swinging chick at a bar, and they went back to her place for bondage and light refreshments. He was rather plastered by this point, and they'd had another tequila maria when they got in, so by the time he was flagellating her, he'd forgotten the safe word was 'fettuccine'. Well, the upshot being that she was tied up, screaming her head off―"Fettuccine! Fettuccine!"―which he didn't know how to make head or tail of, so finally he looked through the cupboard and shoved a handful of tagliatelle down her gob. Whatever got her rocks off, he said.

A few hours had passed, and my cellmate had taken the mat and dosed off. He did have the grace to ask me if I wanted it, but being offered a bed by a rapist and bondage fanatic wasn't anything I'd be keen to accept. And, at any rate, I couldn't say I was very impressed by the sheets. Forty percent synthetic, I'd wager, and my skin simply couldn't abide it.

"You've been bailed out." Mr Moustache again, now eating a sausage roll.

I bid my sleeping friend adieu, and got the hell out of there.

I saw Potter sitting in the waiting room as they processed my paper work. Moth-eaten coat, hair a mess, and unshaven to boot. Honestly, _who _had spent the night in the nick, here?

"It took you bloody ages," I said to him, as they saw me out. "How long does it take to fly here?"

"I took the train, Malfoy," he said, rather testily, "for which you owe me another fifty quid. You'd better not go back on it. If Uncle Vernon finds out I've stolen it from his secret hiding place..."

We walked out into the cold. It was terribly late now, and I wished I had brought my greatcoat. Of course, I didn't plan to be out and about in Muggle London getting hexed and put in prison, so I really couldn't have known to bring it.

"I told you I'm good for it, Potter. A Malfoy's bond is sacred. I said I'd pay you double, and I will."

"I don't need double, Malfoy, just make sure I get the three hundred."

"Really, Potter," I said, waving a dismissive hand at him, "all this talk of money smacks terribly of the middle class. I'll have no more it. Now, what do we do from here?"

Potter stopped walking and turned to face me. He really could have used a shave. Whiskers do very little to flatter him. "_I'm_ going home, Malfoy. I've bailed you out. I've certainly done more than enough for you. _Much_ more than you'd have ever done for me if it had been reversed."

"Ah, but that's because you always feel the need to the almighty hero, no? You couldn't help yourself. You had to come to my rescue, no matter how much you despise me."

"I don't need to be a hero, Malfoy. And as proof, I'm going to go home now. Have fun wandering London."

He began to walk away. Bastard. "Hey! Potter!" I caught up with him. "I don't have my wand. I have no means of getting home!"

"Take the Hogwarts Express," he said, walking faster and not looking at me. "It passes by your place, doesn't it?"

"I can't seem to get through the partition."

He stopped again. "What?"

"For God's sake, Potter, have you lost your hearing? I said, I can't get through the buggering brick wall."

"Why?"

"I don't bloody know, do I? I haven't a clue how I got to London in the first place. I just woke up here. And then I tried to get to King's Cross, but on the way, I got solicited by vagrants and attacked by deliquent youths. Look it this gash! A big brute gave it to me." A big brute with hoop earrings and stiletto heels, but I left that bit out. I showed him my forehead. "I'll likely scar, Potter, and then I'll look like you. Disfigured and hideous."

He began to walk again. "I'm not interested in your problems, Malfoy."

"Look, let me come home with you."

"Definitely not. First off, I hate you. I could never have you over. What would Ron say? Second, Uncle Vernon will have a coronary if I bring another wizard in the house. Third, I hate you."

We stopped at a bus station. "I don't need to go inside, Potter. I just need to borrow your broom to get home. I'll return it tomorrow, first thing, with your money. Go on, you know it's a good idea."

Potter let out a sigh, which meant I'd won.

* * *

><p>On the train ride home, we rode "Standard Class", meaning even Flitwick would have been cramped in these seats. Of course, I was lumbered beside a woman who was the size of baby humpback. I mean, it was enough that she was taking up both our armrests, but she was spilling over to boot. I swung my head around to Potter, who sat behind. Of course his seatmate was a pretty, young girl.<p>

"Potter, let's trade seats."

"Not on your life, Malfoy."

"But you're used to discomfort. It's hundred times worse for me."

"Suck it up and turn around."

Why did people like him so much? He really was very disagreeable.

"When does the trolley come?"

"Trolley's only in First, Malfoy. You'll have to go to the dining car."

"Will you―"

"No."

"Fine! I'll go."

"You don't have the money, Malfoy."

"That's right, Potter. So fork it over."

"No."

"Potter, I swear to God―!"

"What? What'll you do?"

Once I get my wand back, I'm going to make him grow breasts,―big jiggly ones. Yes, won't that be humiliating?

"Malfoy, what are you laughing at?"

Ahem.

* * *

><p>His broomstick was broken apparently. Utterly useless, just like he was.<p>

"Hi-yo, Silver! Away!"

"Malfoy, will you keep quiet? People are sleeping."

"What the hell is wrong with your broomstick? If I don't get out of this disgustingly bourgeois suburb in the next two minutes, I'll go mad."

It really was awful. All of the houses were exactly the same, all seemingly attached to one another, and all some horrible shade of puce.

"It was fine last I rode it."

"Well, your fat arse must have broken it, Potter."

He went red. Score. "I―I beg you pardon?" Ah, the stammer of self-consciousness and insecurity.

"You heard me. A little less chocolate frogs, a little more celery; that's my advice."

"Just because I'm not emaciated like you, Malfoy. We can't all be Karen Carpenter."

I wasn't sure who she was, but I was certain the reference was in poor taste. "I'm _delicate_, Potter. But you wouldn't know anything about that."

"Get out the way!" He shoved me (bastard) and got on the broom.

And he flew. How―?

"Apparently, Malfoy," he said overhead, "you're just useless at flying. But considering your Quidditch technique, it's hardly a surprise."

"Get down here, you little turd!" He landed, and I grabbed the broomstick from him. "Hi-yo, Silver! Away!"

Blast. Didn't move an inch. Why wouldn't it work? Damn, damn, damn.

"Potter―"

"I'm not flying you home, Malfoy." He started walking back to the house.

"Potter!"

"Good luck, Malfoy." He unlocked the door.

"At least let me in!"

"No. Good night, Malfoy." That smirk. I'll kill him.

"What am I meant to do?"

"I don't know. But I'm going to take my 'fat arse' upstairs to a warm bed, where I plan to go straight to sleep."

And _slam_ went the the door, shaking the wreath that was positioned perfectly in the centre. I looked, and as I guessed, all the other houses down the line had the exact same wreath―same hideous tartan bow up top. Though I cannot abide Marx―for reasons quite obvious, I should think―, I really am beginning to understand his quarrel with the bourgeoisie. Terrible Christmas décor.

A light switched on up above, in a room which I can only assume to be Potter's.

_I do hate to ruin your plans, Harry, old stick, but you won't be turning in just yet. You're taking me home._

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><p><strong>Go on. Review! :)<strong>


	2. 2 Harry Potter

**Draco Malfoy, Muggle**

**by Jacob Oliver**

**Chapter 2. Harry Potter.**

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><p>I ran upstairs to my room, tossed my coat to a corner, and stared rather desperately at the mirror. Damn it all. Perhaps, Malfoy had a point. My belly was a bit protruding. Lord knows I've gone on diet. Why, only last week, I tried that new cabbage soup craze that Aunt Petunia's magazine had raved over. (I don't read it, per say, just a skim, now and again). Well, I don't know what those women were on about, because I did it and ended up gaining a pound. Then again, perhaps I wasn't meant to add those tins of corned beef.<p>

Ron eats and gorges, and yet he remains thin as a stick. I suspect it's a thyroidal thing.

Why couldn't I have a thyroidal thing?

_Bang, __bang, __bang!_ at the door.

Malfoy.

Oh Lord.

What on earth did he think he was doing? _Bang,__ bang, __bang!_ I heard the loud thud of Uncle Vernon having risen from bed, as well Aunt Petunia's horrified shouts to protect Dudders at all cost, and, if need be, to sacrifice the speccy, black-haired one.

I sprang out, racing to beat Uncle Vernon to the door, but, heaven help me, it was already too late. He was already trudging heavily down the stairs in his bathrobe, nightcap, and furious demeanour; and, when he threw open the door, there was Malfoy once again, smiling so winningly that one felt the inexplicable urge to thump his nose in.

Suffice-to-say, Uncle Vernon was wild in his temper. "It's two in the morning, you little shite! What do you want? Let me tell you straightaway: we won't be converting religions; we're not buying anything; and I'm not signing any petitions unless it's for the repatriation of that damned Oriental family that's moved in across the street."

Malfoy's smile faltered for a short second, but he recomposed it quickly. "Harry invited me."

I nearly toppled down the stairs.

"He _what!_" I could feel Uncle Vernon's basso-profundo reverberating under my feet. "BOY!"

I'll kill him. I'll string him up and murder the bastard. "Y-yes?"

"What is the meaning of this!"

"I don't know who he is! Honest! I've never seen him before!"

Malfoy chimed in, deceptively sweet. "Come now, Harry, old stick. You only just bailed me out of prison not a few hours ago; surely, you can't have forgotten. You know,―with your uncle's money. The one he keeps hidden in―where was it?"

Uncle Vernon dove for the geranium pot. Hair littered with soil and browned foliage, he tremblingly held out one miserable fiver: indeed, all that remained. He stood up slowly, calmly; and, considering that Uncle Vernon was never calm, I quickly deduced that I was but mere seconds away from an imminent and inescapable death. He strode toward the fireplace, reaching for the―

* * *

><p>I compelled my eyes open, though at first they did not obey. Presently, I could do little more than that, aside perhaps from squirming about rather pitifully on my back. I felt the wetness of grass that had soaked into my clothing; and, as my vision unblurred, I perceived Malfoy standing above, smiling at me. "What an interesting fellow your uncle is. I should like to get to know him better one day."<p>

A pain in my head at once sharp and dull overtook my senses, and it was several more moments before I could ask―"What―? What happened?"

"He threw an iron poker and concussed you," he replied, as though it were simply a matter of course. "It's a very lucky break it hit with the blunt end, or else, I dare say, there might have been blood everywhere; and, I assure you, this herringbone slipover does not bleach well. At any rate, as soon you'd collapsed into rather an indelicate heap upon the living room floor, he just as quickly picked you up and ejected you from the house with a splendid heave-ho. I showed myself out."

I was agog at Malfoy's narrative. Had he really so little conscience or humanity inside of him that he took such violence in his stride? Horrid, odious boy! Spurred by great anger, I hoisted myself up and attempted to lunge at him, but, the apparent head injury throbbing in full course, I ended up stumbling about and receiving a mouthful of dirt.

"Easy now, Potter. You're still out of sorts. We'll give you a moment to rest, and then you may take me home."

I lifted myself onto my elbows and spit out a worm. "I will not! Why should I take you home after what you've done!"

"Because, Potter," he said, a smug venom in his voice, "if you don't, I sha'n't be able to get you the money. And then what will dearest Uncle Vernon do, eh?"

I let my face fall back into the soil and mumbled the Killing Curse.

"Come on, then," Malfoy said, with a clap of his hands. He stepped daintily over me and retrieved the broom. "Off we go, what?"

What else could I do? Malfoy had me firmly by the nibs, and my options were scarce. _Damn him._ I groaned as I stood, my head still pounding and spinning dervishly; but it seemed on the wane, at the very least. "Let me get my wand and heal myself first."

"He's locked us out, Potter. He'd said, Don't come back until you've got his money."

It was very fortunate for him I didn't have my wand.

* * *

><p>I had chastised Malfoy for stealing Mrs Pewter's jackets off the line three doors down; but bless him for insisting because it was absolutely freezing cold, and we'd have likely died of pneumonia without them on. And, more importantly, he looked utterly ludicrous in her furry pink jumper, which we had both fought tooth-and-nail to avoid; and, seeing as he was completely useless in a wandless tussle, I got the donkey jacket. Not as warm as the big, flaming monster he had swathed about him, but at least I got to laugh at him as he miserably zipped it up.<p>

We were soaring just below the clouds now, Malfoy seated behind me, clutching my sides. I tried to distract myself from it. And it wasn't only that it was mortifying on every level to have one's arch-nemesis grasping at one's flesh, but I thought, 'He'll feel my stomach, for sure, and won't that be humiliating?' Fortunately, it was more the mid-range that he held onto. I could handle that, though he did keep digging his fingers into me whenever a strong gust of wind blew past.

"Ow! Malfoy, stop!"

"Oh, I'm sorry, Potter. Why don't I just let go and fall to my death?"

"Would you, please?"

"Ha-ha, Potter. Your witty retorts disarm me."

"If you'd just move in closer, you wouldn't need to hold on so awkwardly."

"You wish, Potter! I'm not getting any closer than this."

"You're disgusting, Malfoy."

We flew on for one of the most uncomfortable hours of my life, and this is considering that I've been in caves with giant spiders and fought off bloody-thirsty basilisks with only a sword and my wits about me. When finally we approached his estate, we were forced to land just outside the gate because the magical protection wards prevented our going any further. It was an enormous property with vast woodlands and a lake all of its own. The manor house itself was a magnificent structure with a dome-like centre and massive wings that stretched out on either side.

"Better than a cupboard under the stairs, wouldn't you say?" Malfoy said to me, as we stepped off the broom.

How did he find out about that? I shall flay the person who told him.

He smiled proudly and, after a nod of the head, informed me, "I think that'll be all then, Potter. Good night."

"No way, Malfoy. I want that money now."

He sighed, seemingly unwilling, but he had given me his word as a Malfoy. "Oh, alright, Mr Greedy. I'm can't say how pleased Father will be to see you, but that's your call."

Beside the gate was a rope which appeared to be magically suspended in the air. Malfoy gave it a resolute pull, and the deep ring of bell resounded. After a moment, a voice came through, as though from a speaker system.

"State your business." There was a grogginess to it, and I remembered how terribly early in the morning it was.

"It's David, the first footman," Malfoy informed me, and then, speaking to the voice in the air―"I say, David, open the gate and tell my father I'm back."

"I beg your pardon?" came David's voice again.

So Malfoy spoke louder. "I say, David, open the gate and tell―"

"What is your name?"

"David, it's Master Draco. Now, I'll not say it again; open―"

"I'm sorry, I don't know who you are. State your business, and I shall take it to the Master."

"David!" Draco was becoming well frustrated now, and he leant forward against the gate in exasperation. "It's Draco!"

"I don't know―"

"Stop playing games, David, or I'll see to it you're sacked."

"Please, sir, state your business, or leave."

"Why, you insubordinate little―! David, you little useless turd, go tell my father, Draco's come home."

"And who is your father?"

"_Lucius Malfoy_, who the hell do you think!"

There was a long pause and then―"I think it's best you leave."

"Let me in!" Draco shouted, and he ran his fingers harshly against his scalp. Turning to look at me, he said, "Is it so hard to find good servants?"

"Oh, frightfully so!" I said, and rolled my eyes.

Then, in the background another voice came through, one which, for the both us, was immediately recognisable. Lucius Malfoy―

"What's all this, David? Who's come at this hour?"

"Sir, it is … I … he claims to be …"

"Father! Thank Heavens! Tell David to open the bloody gate."

"Who is this?" His voice dripped with acid; which indeed I was accustomed to, but at which Draco instantly recoiled.

"I―Father, it's Draco. I don't what happened, but I ended up in London, and I've been trying to get home for hours. I've just returned now."

On the other side of the tall, iron gate, Lucius Malfoy apparated before us in so startling a flash of cloud and smoke that, accompanied by his severe and impressive demeanour, the both of us jumped backward a great step. Indeed, he was as I remembered him:―tall and slender, though broader than Draco, and carrying with him that decided air of unflinching confidence and self-possession which only the likes of a Malfoy could so convincingly maintain. His stark, angular features looked brutally down toward us as he demanded very gravely―"Who are you?" You could have made an iced lolly with his breath.

I looked at Draco, trying to make sense of the situation, but at present he seemed to be completely immobilised. "Say something," I whispered.

Lucius, sweeping back his hair with an emerald-tipped cane, suddenly turned toward me, as if for the first time noticing I was present; and, in doing so, he appeared actually to double-take. "_Harry Potter?_ What are _you _doing here? What madness is this?"

"Believe me, sir," I said, trying to remain composed and unaltered; "I'm as confused as you are."

"Father..." Draco began again, very slowly. "Don't you recognise me?"

"Who put you up to this?" Lucius returned, stepping forward with intention.

"Father..."

"You disgust me," he said, truly and utterly brimming with said disgust. "You think you can come to my home in the dead of night, dressed in some Yeti costume―"

"It's not mine! It's Mrs Pewter's!"

"Shut up, you scoundrel! You think you can come here and shamelessly claim to be my heir! And you'd think I'd fall to my knees and welcome you? You stupid, baseborn filth! I have never fathered a child, neither legitimate nor bastard!" He laughed suddenly, though it seemed contrived, and he said, "You could have at least pretended to be a distant cousin. There's something about the eyes. But my son? You are a ridiculous waste of human flesh."

"Sir!" I piped up angrily, though not knowing why. I stepped forward anyway. "He's―your _son_, for God's sake!"

"I don't know what _you're_ doing here, Potter, but I suggest you take your friend and leave this instant or else I'll be releasing the hyenas. Goodnight."

And he vanished, and ... hold the phone―_hyenas?_ What did he do, burgle Safari Park?

Well, hyenas aside, this had not been the most ideal homecoming. I dreaded to look back at Draco, because, honestly, I shouldn't know what I to do if he started to cry. How embarrassingly awkward would that be! I took an anxious gulp, and, when finally did turn to him, I found he was still utterly frozen, so much so that he didn't appear to be breathing.

"Malfoy?"

A minute more passed, and then, I suppose, unable to hold the breath any longer, his whole body appeared to collapse in on itself. He withdrew a fierce exhale and, leaning forward, grasped his knees for support.

"Malfoy―" I began again, though I didn't at all know how to follow it up; which worked out favourably, really, for, a second after, he had grabbed me by the jacket collar and thrust me painfully against the gate.

"What's going on, Potter? Is this your doing? What kind of joke is this?"

"Malfoy, I don't know." I didn't bother to fight him. I mean, he was wide open for a groin-pull and a palm to the nose bridge (golly, I must stop using Auntie P.'s magazines as my primary source for self-defence techniques), but, considering that his father just disowned him and that a groin-pull indeed meant my hand on Draco Malfoy's down-unders, I forewent any such action―and cursed my cheeks for blushing so.

Malfoy shut his eyes tightly, took a deep, staggering breath, and let go. He did nothing more for a short while, until he walked over and picked up the broom. "Let's go," he said.

"Where?"

"Pansy. She'll be in the townhouse by herself. Her parents are on holiday."

If it were Ron, he'd have told Malfoy "so long" and flew back home, whistling _Happy Days are Here Again_. And part of me really wanted to. I mean, this was _Malfoy_, after all. I hated him truly. But, the other part knew all too precisely what it was like to be utterly alone and indeed to have no family whatsoever. Lucius had turned his back on his son for some unfathomable reason, and I knew that I couldn't just leave Malfoy out in the cold.

Maybe he was right. Maybe I did need to be the almighty hero. _Oh, won't somebody please be merciful and have at my carotid?_

I nodded.

* * *

><p>Pansy had had a conniption when she saw me, wondering, I suppose as Mr Malfoy had, what in God's name I was doing at her doorstep at quarter past three in the morning. She told me and "my friend" to shove off before she transformed us both into slug larvae, which I can't say I would have been terribly keen on becoming.<p>

We then visited the Crabbe household, and the Goyle, and the Zabini―having each time narrowly escaped certain doom, paralysis, and third-degree burns. Mrs Zabini, a rather frightening, humpbacked woman of the old country, had hurled some magic dust at us, which, if I'm frank, smelled suspiciously like oregano. And when that stratagem clearly failed, she set her pet winged-monkey on us, which, blow me if I knew had existed outside the Merry Old Land of Oz. It clawed at us and threw its feces, but with some highly advanced Quidditch strategy, we managed to avoid what could only be a rather foul-smelling fate.

"That's it, Malfoy," I said, the moment we'd finally lost the strange, bestial amalgamation; "no more Slytherin houses."

He remained silent in response, and, though the wind whistled coldly, I could feel the warm, steady beat of his heart against my back.

"Malfoy?"

"There's nobody else, anyway."

"It doesn't make sense, Malfoy. What's happening? Why doesn't anyone remember you?"

He didn't reply―perhaps because it really was a rather stupid question. Certainly, he was more confused than I was.

"Potter," he said suddenly. "Turn right. One more house." And he seemed suddenly to brighten; and his heart, to beat faster.

And yet, it had been a terrible idea all the same. I mean, why should Snape have remembered him when nobody else had? What's more, the greasy bastard had confiscated my broom for, quote, "wanton flying"―whatever that meant―and bid us catch the Knight Bus home.

This may have been the biggest blow to Malfoy all evening, come to think of it, for he had seemed so hopeful―no―so _certain_ that Snape would remember him. I suppose, aside from being his favourite professor, Snape must also have been one of Malfoy's closest friends.

Needless-to-say, Malfoy was wild with fury. He had screamed at Snape, _demanding_ he remember; and when he couldn't, Malfoy was a man on fire, overturning Snape's desk and knocking over all his cauldrons, cursing up and down and sideways and altogether making a perfect scrap-yard of Snape's private abode. Snape nearly Stupefied him, but I grabbed Malfoy and led him outside before he'd had the chance. The door slammed in our faces.

And, to top it off, the Knight Bus wouldn't come.

"Where is the darned thing?" I said, tapping my foot and staring out into the street. "It usually comes straightaway."

Malfoy turned to me, a mixture of defeat and bitterness in his mien. In a gruff whisper, he said, "It's me."

"What?"

"Don't you see, Potter? It's some curse. I don't know what it is. I can't get get through the wall to Platform 9 ¾. I can't fly a fucking broom. Why should the Knight Bus come and pick me up?"

"It'll come," I said, attempting to be reassuring. _Wouldn't it?_

A half-hour uneasy silence passed; and, just as Malfoy had broken it to say, "Fuck this," and had begun to walk away, those familiar blinding headlights pulled toward us, and a large triple-decker opened it's door.

"Young Mr Potter―in you get," the driver said. "Hurry now, we've a schedule to keep."

"Wait," I said, and, turning toward Malfoy, called, "Come on!"

He came back, however reluctantly, and I said to him, "There you see. I told you it'd come."

"Odd," the driver said, running his finger down a list on his clipboard; and I think Malfoy had known what was coming before he'd said it. "I only have one passenger for this stop. Harry James Potter. Well, I suppose mistakes occur, lists change. Come on, then, chop chop. But there's only one bed remaining, mind, so you'll have to share."

Indeed, inside the bus, on every level, were beds, all occupied with sleeping passengers. Except the one. We stared at it, and the bus jolted off.

"Head to toe?" I suggested.

"Fuck off, Potter, I'm the one in crisis." And he took it all for himself. There was a chair beside it, fortunately, but it was hardly a bed; and I was beginning to feel I really should have left him when I'd had the chance.

The bus driver called back to us―"Where to, lads?"

Ah, marvellous revenge! I had to bite my cheek to keep from smiling. "Devon. The Burrow."

Malfoy fell off the bed with a satisfying _thump_. "What!"

"Well, seeing as _your_ friends proved absolutely useless, I thought maybe mine can be of actual help."

He clambered back onto the bed, scowling, though he knew I was right. It didn't prevent him, however, from muttering to himself in disgust―"_Weasleys_..."

* * *

><p>"Harry!" Mrs Weasley exclaimed, and wrapped me into a rather tight and spleen-crushing hug. She wore her pink, tattered robe, and her hair was up in curlers; and I thought, 'Malfoy, keep schtumm,'―which, thankfully, he did, though it must have been torture.<p>

It was half four in the morning, and, as always, Mrs Weasley was already up, washing last night's dishes and cooking breakfast for a household of six.

"Hi, Mrs Weasley!"

"And you've brought a friend. How exciting."

"Yes. I hope you don't mind―"

"Of course not, Harry! I hope he likes fried mushrooms!"

I felt Malfoy's stomach lurch.

"Come in, come in!" she said. "Ron's still fast asleep, as are they all, so I hope you don't mind my company for the next couple hours."

The Burrow was as I remembered it, cluttered and cramped, but undeniably as warm and homely as any house could hope to be. The smell and sizzle of bacon was in the air, and instantly I was glad to be back.

Malfoy leant into my ear. "Can I skip the mushrooms and go straight to bacon?"

"Shut up, Malfoy." I turned to Mrs Weasley, who had begun cracking a few eggs. "We actually came because, well,―we need some help."

"Oh dear," Mrs Weasley said, tossing an egg-shell in the bin. "Of course, Harry. Whatever I or Arthur can do. What seems to be the trouble? Tell me over tea." She poured us each a cup and sat beside us at the kitchen table.

"Do you recognise _him_ at all?" I asked, tilting my head toward Malfoy.

"I can't say I do, Harry," she said. "Should I? Does he go to Hogwarts? No, don't tell me. Is he one of the Creeveys?" (Here, Malfoy had spit out his tea). "Are you Paul and Sandra's eldest? The hairdresser? Yes! I should have known all along, with that coat!"

Malfoy stood. "It's not mine, you―!"

"No," I interrupted him in time and motioned for him to resume his seat. "He's not actually. A Creevey, I mean."

"No?" she said, and offered us a digestive. "But he _is_ a hairdresser?"

"Listen here, you―!"

"He's Lucius Malfoy's son," I said. "Draco."

"Oh, don't be so silly, Harry," she said. "The Malfoys don't have a child. Though God knows they've tried." And she added in hushed tones, "Word is, she's completely barren. Dry as the Kalahari in mid-August, but didn't hear it from me." She stood to flip the bacon.

I struggled commendably, trying to hold Malfoy back from lunging at her.

"He _is_ their son, Mrs Weasley," I said, shoving Malfoy back onto his chair. "Tell me, is it possible to erase someone from existence? Is there a spell or something?"

Malfoy rolled his eyes and scoffed. "We came all the way to the Weasleys to ask _that_?_ I_ could have answered that, Potter. It's impossible. You'd have to somehow Obliviate everyone I know of all their memories since the first time they met me.

"Which wouldn't work," Mrs Weasley said, returning to the table, "because memory-altering spells can only affect your most recent memories."

"And even if you _could_," Malfoy continued testily, "it wouldn't explain all that other stuff with the Platform and the broom and the Knight Bus."

"What other stuff?" It was a voice from behind.

We spun around and perceived Mr Weasley standing in the hallway, yawning and scratching his thigh.

"Hi Harry. Sorry, if I was eavesdropping."

"_If?_" said Malfoy.

"Shut up, Malfoy," I said.

Mr Weasley's eyebrows shot up. "Malfoy? You're a Malfoy?"

Malfoy scoffed. "Oh, you hadn't eavesdropped _that _bit, did you?"

"Well, he certainly acts like a Malfoy," said Mr Weasley, as his wife handed him his tea.

"Indeed, he does," I replied glaring a warning at Malfoy; but he didn't catch it, as he was busy nursing his jaw after a failed attempt at a digestive. Serves him right. "I'm sorry to bother you with this, but we didn't know what else to do. You see, he _is_ Lucius Malfoy's son."

"What?" Mr Weasley said. "You mean he's a―? Ahem."

Malfoy pointed dangerously at him. "If you say 'bastard', Weasley―"

"Well, if the shoe fits."

"Now, Arthur!" Mrs Weasley interrupted. "The poor lad can't help it if he's a bit of a bastard, now, can he? Now―Draco, was it?―can you tell me if I've tightened these curlers enough, because I can't seem to get my hair like it shows on the box."

"I'm not a hairdresser, you horrible woman! And I'm not a bastard! I'll have you know I am Lucius Malfoy's legitimate son and heir!"

"It really is true," I continued. "But nobody seems to remember him. Except me, whatever that means. Do you think, maybe, you can run a background check on him?"

"A what?"

"I mean, can you find out about him through the Ministry?"

"Oh, right. Erm―well, it's not generally done. I suppose I can pull a few strings. Okay, Harry, if you think this―ahem―is really Lucius Malfoy's 'son and heir.'"

"Watch it, Weasley."

"Here's the box here," Mrs Weasley said, thrusting the curler box at Malfoy's face, nearly knocking him backward. "Look at how her hair goes. How do I make it do that?"

* * *

><p><strong>Review, my darling ones! Thanks! <strong>


	3. 3 Draco Malfoy

**Draco Malfoy, Muggle**

****by Jacob Oliver****

**Chapter 3. Draco Malfoy.**

* * *

><p>I will say this about Mrs Weasley―who is otherwise completely and irretrievably off her dome―she can make a mushroom taste good. Honest, I can't get enough of the stuff. Still, being in the Burrow was quite a horror. Where should I begin? The furniture. Now, I love wood, I do. I love a good oak or polished cocobolo, but for God's sake sand it down and varnish. Did you know I caught a splinter touching the dining table? I showed Potter, but he wouldn't do anything.<p>

We had a bit of a chat with the Weasley couple about my situation; and the husband said he'd try to see what he could find out, but he'd need a strand of my hair, standard procedure. I asked for some scissors, but Potter plucked it out without a warning; and I simply couldn't see what was so funny about my scream at all. The pitch was perfectly understandable considering the undue pain.

The Weasel was first of the progeny out of hibernation. When he saw his speccy-eyed friend, he ran down excitedly, giving Harry a hug that rivalled that of Mrs Weasley's. It was all disturbingly homoerotic.

He noticed me after they'd ended their little sensual embrace; and well, if Ronald Weasley―possibly the only person in existence who could hate me more than Harry Potter―didn't demand I be thrown out the house that instant and strung up on the sycamore, then I didn't know what to think.

"Hi, there," he said, with a cheery pleasantness he'd actually directed toward me. "Are you Harry's friend?"

Potter shifted uncomfortably. "Oh, erm―this is Draco," he said.

"Hi, Draco! I'm Ron," he said, smiling warmly at me, and it was all very disarming. But when he held out his hand to me, I thought, 'He _really_ doesn't know who I am. ― Oh yes. This will be very entertaining, indeed.'

I gave him a hearty shake of the hand and said as affably as I could muster, "How do you do, Ron? Harry's told me so much about you!"

"Not _all_ bad, I hope?" Weasley said, laughing; and Potter looked desperately like he was trying to steer him away. _But not just now, dear Harry, I've not yet finished._

"Oh, you know our Harry," I said. "It's all tall-tales with him, but don't worry, I don't believe half the things he tells me. For instance, I never believed him when he said you had a deathly fear of spiders. I told him to hold his tongue. I said, 'Harry, stop your fibbing. I know any real lad can't possibly be afraid of anything so silly.' Am I right, Ron?"

He went a satisfyingly mortified red and replied, "Erm―of course"; and with painful effort, forced a toothy smile.

"There you see, Harry; I told you," I said. "So you must stop telling people those awful lies."

Weasley choked. "People? He's told others?"

"Oh, not really," I said. "Not very many at all. Only a few girls."

"Harry," said Weasley, with poorly dissembled outrage, "we need a chat."

Oh, the look on Potter's face! Perhaps it _was_ a good idea to come here after all. Now, where was that Virginia girl? I've to tell her all about the sudden crush Harry's inexplicably gained for her.

* * *

><p>Well, breakfast was pleasant enough; that is, until the twins flatulently descended the staircase in gold-stained y-fronts, scratching themselves, and proceeding to reach over for a handful of scrambled eggs.<p>

"Who's Blondie?" one of them said.

"He's my friend," said Potter, blushing appropriately at their disgraceful display. When he looked at me, it was almost apologetic.

They shovelled the eggs down their gullet, after which both extended a hand in front of my face. Whatever apologetic look Harry had had a second ago was now completely vanished, and was replaced rather by one of great amusement.

I reached over to shake, ever a gracious guest, but before I could―scandal!―I so very accidentally knocked over my squash cordial, and most penitently began to mop it up. "Oh, how very clumsy of me. This is all so terribly embarrassing."

After breakfast, Weasley Sr. was off to earn the bread, promising Harry that he'd be finding out what he could about me. They all gave him a hug and a kiss goodbye, including the grown boys in their y-fronts; and, if I didn't before, I really began to worry about the psychological stability of this household.

The Weasley wife asked Potter and me if we should like to rest. Well, she could bet her ugly curls we would, considering last night's fiasco. She offered us the twins' room, against which I vehemently protested on the grounds of I'd rather not be infested, thanks. Potter seemed in agreement.

So she gave us the room of the eldest brothers, who apparently no longer lived here. It was a small enough room, but tidy, and with two beds,―which was always a plus. We were offered their old pyjamas, and I generally would have declined―because really, what a hideous idea―, but she said she'd give our clothes a wash, which, given last night's sweat and chase, was a very sound plan.

The sheets weren't terribly bad―a bit tatty, I grant, but soft and very comfortable. I looked over at Potter, who was facing the wall opposite. Oh how darling, he slept in the fetal position.

I closed my eyes and tried to sleep as well. I really was frightfully exhausted, but I couldn't seem to dose. Oh hell. I got restless and started to peel the wallpaper beside me. I wasn't doing much damage, honestly, because it really was already falling off to begin. As I did, however, I spied a break in the wall, a little slit that you could fit your fingernails into. I checked to see if Potter was still asleep. He made a murmuring noise, which answered that; and, my curiosity oddly superseding my concern for these perfectly manicured fingers, I stuck them in, and the crevice opened slightly. It was a sliding panel, apparently, and pushing it up just a bit more revealed a secret compartment. I peered through, but it was a long way in and really very dark. Oh, what a delightfully Gothic turn in the action! I reached in with the length of my arm, praying it wasn't some horrible trap set by the twins, and I felt a pile of―books, was it? I pulled one out.

If my grin could grow any wider or wilder, the Chesire cat would be out of a job.

"Potter!" I whispered. I could hear the glee in my voice.

He stirred, but didn't wake.

"Potter! Potter!" I whispered a little louder.

"Mmrr..." he gurgled and slowly lifted his head. "What is it, Malfoy?"

"Who used to have this bed?"

"What? Erm―oh, Charlie, did."

"Well, I've found his secret cubbyhole."

"What are you on about, Malfoy?" He slowly sat up, rubbing his eyes.

"Put on your glasses and have a gander at this." I tossed it to him.

He reached for the bedside table, replaced his spectacles, had said gander, and promptly fell off the bed.

I reached into the compartment and pulled out two or three more. "By Jove! he's got an endless supply."

Potter, picked himself up, and he was absolutely red-faced. "Malfoy!" His voice squeaked, as though pubertally; and he tried very hard not to look at the magazine.

"_Wizards and Their Wands Vol. 24_," I read out, "_Straddle Your Broomstick Vol. 8_―would you look at that centrefold! Now, that can't be real!"

"Malfoy! Put it back where you found it!"

"Do they know about their dear Chuckie, do you think?"

"I―" he paused. "No, I don't think they do, actually. Last time he came over, they'd tried to set him up with Kitty Applebaum." Potter looked at me for a short moment, and then broke into a fit of laughter.

I skimmed through page fourteen. "Oh, these articles are a scream!" I said, flipping the page. "Look, here's an Agony Aunt. Okay, quiet, quiet. Listen. 'Dear Auntie Frank, I have just done it in the backside, and it hurts to sit down―"

Potter was holding his mouth shut, trying to keep from laughing so loudly. "Malfoy stop! This is horrible!"

"Hold on, Potter. _Listen!_"

"Please! I can't―" he held his mouth with both hands.

"I have just done it in the backside, and it hurts to sit down. ― Did I catch hemorrhoids?'"

Potter lost it completely and collapsed backward on the bed, roaring; and I can't say I didn't give a chuckle or two myself.

We must have been really rather noisy, because the doorknob turned and the door squeaked open; and we had to scramble to cover up Charlie's shame with the pillows and blankets. Mrs Weasley stood there, looking at us with a hand on her hip.

"Now, I thought you lads said you were tired. Well, if you're so wide awake, you may as well come down and help with the washing up. Come on, then." She motioned for us to follow, and walked away.

I looked at Potter. "Okay, one last. 'Dear Auntie Frank―'"

He threw a pillow at me. "For heaven's sake, Malfoy. No more!"

"'My boyfriend is to big to fit into my―'"

"Harry Potter!" Mrs Weasley shouted from downstairs; "you stop that laughing, and come and wash these dishes!"

* * *

><p>My job, presently, is to sit on the sofa and touch nothing.<p>

I had first been put on laundry duty; and I'd gotten the starch confused with washing up powder, and by the time the clothes were up to dry, Mrs Weasley had a new collection of plastic scanties. Then they'd set me cleaning the living room, and honest to God, I had no idea you weren't meant to scrub a painting with ammonia.

I was only trying be helpful. Mrs Weasley said I'm to "sit on my hands."

After a while, Potter came in and collapsed beside me, wiping his brow. His t-shirt was soaked in perspiration. It was really quite vulgar. "They've got me chopping firewood," he said. "I need a break."

"You need a _wash_, more like," I said. "You reek, Potter."

He looked up at the Weasley family portrait. "What the hell happened to Ginny's face?"

I shrugged. "It was only a bit of strong corrosive."

He looked astonished, though the amusement bled through. "You're useless, Malfoy! Poor Ginny."

"Yes, well, it's not like she's any worse off now."

"Malfoy!"

"Oh, like _you_ don't think she's pug-nosed. Come on, Potter. Even you have eyes."

"Ginny's a sweet girl."

"I didn't say she wasn't. All I'm saying is I think I did that portrait a favour."

"You're terrible, Malfoy," he said, but I knew he agreed. "Anyway, I'd love to carry on rating young ladies with you, but some of us have actual productive work to do."

"You'd better have a wash before you go to bed tonight!" I called to him as he made his way out. "You're not stinking up our room with armpit, Potter."

* * *

><p>I had fallen asleep on the sofa, only to be woken some hours later by Fred Weasley complaining to his dear counterpart about foreskin thrush. George replied, "Oh, it must be a twin thing, because I've got it, too." I waited patiently for them to head off and quote "compare symptoms"; and soon after made my way to the toilet and had a jolly good vomit.<p>

I think this was a rather clear omen of the horrors the night would soon bring.

Only, perhaps, a half-hour later, Mrs Weasley was cooking a large pot of stew; Potter and the Weasel were playing whist; the twins were―(let's overlook that, shall we?); and I had begun a dog-eared copy of _Tess_ that was lying around. It's a great comedy.

And then Mr Weasley came back from work,―alongside two large, mean-looking men in black suits. I thought, 'This can't be good.'

"Arthur, you really should have told me you were bringing guests!" Mrs Weasley chastised. She sighed and said, "Oh, well, it's no real bother. Ginny, add another jug of water in the Boeuf Bourgignon, would you?" Of course it sounded eerily like "Boof Bor-jig-non", but I sha'n't dwell.

"Yes, mum!"

"It's really not necessary, dear," Mr Weasley told her. "They're not staying." He moved toward Potter and said, "I'm sorry, Harry, but it seems your friend hasn't been telling you the truth."

I stood, about to protest, but the men drew their wands and pointed them at me.

Now Potter rose. "What's going on, Mr Weasley?"

"Harry," he said, "I did as you asked. I found out about him. We took his hair and dropped it in the Aperio potion. It reveals one's identity and background. And Harry, you need to know, he _isn't_ Draco Malfoy."

"I am!"

He turned to me and ordered, "Sit, Leroy; you're in enough trouble as it is."

"_Leroy?_" They've flipped their wig if they think I'm called _Leroy_.

"His name is Leroy Bucket," Mr Weasley continued to Harry.

"Leroy Bucket? _Leroy Bucket?_ Why you lying little―"

"Vox Silencio," said one of the men in suits, and I lost my voice.

I needed to get out of there now. I looked around for an escape route. I could always leap onto the coffee table and dive through the glass window ... Hm ... Right, where are the handcuffs?

"Mr Weasley, please―" Harry began, but he wasn't given a word in edgewise.

"No, Harry, let me finish. Leroy Bucket is a Muggle."

"What? Mr Weasley, I can assure he's _not_."

"He is, Harry. The potion doesn't lie. He's a Muggle. And so, following protocol, we got in contact with Muggle Child Services, and they only confirmed it. They said that Leroy is a runaway orphan. He's been missing for some time, and they'd be very grateful if we brought him back. And that's what we're going to do, Harry."

"Well, that solves that, Harry!" Mrs Weasley said, wiping her hands on her apron. "Now everybody grab a bowl and help yourself."

"Molly, please," said Mr Weasley.

"It's getting cold, Arthur," she said impatiently, and turned to the Ministry men. "For God's sake, boys, are you taking Leroy or not?"

"You _can't_," said Potter.

"I'm sorry, Harry. You sought the Ministry's help, and now it's out of my hands. Take him away, boys."

_Well, go on, Potter; fight them! Judo chop! Don't just stand there!_

They grabbed my arms on either side and led me out the door. It was no use struggling, but I did anyway, if only to spite them. Then I was tossed in the back of a Black Maria and carted off to God knows where. And Potter hadn't move an inch to help throughout the whole ordeal.

Some hero he turned out to be.

* * *

><p>They Obliviated me. I mean, they tried, and I acted like they did, but nothing actually happened. I remember everything. I suppose I ought to be surprised, but considering all the sheer delirium that's already taken place, it seemed just another drop in the bucket.<p>

The two men pretended to be police officers; and they took me to some bright little office with posters of rainbows and unicorns and choo-choo trains, and where a woman called Peggy, with a hole in her stocking, fussed over me and thanked the officers with "her whole heart" for bringing me back off the streets.

The instant men left, Peggy descended on me. "Listen here, you little runaway shite. I've got forty cases to work this week alone, and that excludes you. I don't want any trouble or lip. This runs smoothly or I'll toss in borstal where they'll eat up a pretty blonde thing like you for supper. Do we understand each other―" (she looked at the paper) "―Leroy?"

I was rather sure they didn't have borstals anymore, but the way Peggy raved at me, it seemed she was just deranged enough to open one herself. I nodded.

"Now," she continued, "I've pulled some strings, and I've secured a nice little foster home for you to stay for an indefinite time. Well, come on."

"What?"

"I don't like repeating myself, Lee Boy."

"Leroy," I corrected. _What was I saying?_

"I said, Leroy, get your shitty little arse up because we're going to take you there now."

* * *

><p>She drove me in a car that smelled of gin and Christian Dior. Empty packets of Cheese &amp; Onion littered the car-floor, as well as bottles of blue drink called WKD. You'd think they'd be a bit more discerning when hiring Child Social Workers, but that's only me.<p>

We drove up to a suburb much like Potter's, though the houses were a bit nicer here, and this one in particular was quite heavily decorated for Christmas. You needed dark glasses for all the fairy lights and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeers.

We parallel parked, knocked over some bins, and the front door opened before we'd even set foot on the pavement. Two middle-aged men stood at the door. They were very well dressed; one with khaki slacks and a navy-blue turtleneck jumper, the other with casual jeans, but complimented with a fine tweed jacket and untucked Oxford.

Where's the wife?

"Hi, Leroy; I'm Sam and this is Jerry. Come in."

Anything to get away from that horrid Peggy woman. They thanked her, and she fortunately buggered off before they could invite her to tea. They showed me inside.

"It's so nice to meet you, Leroy. Are you hungry? We've kept your dinner warm. We're vegetarians, but we also bought some steaks just for you, if you'd prefer it."

"_I_ was never vegetarian before," Jerry added, "but Sam won't cook anything _he_ doesn't like."

"You've never asked for anything else."

"I have! But any time I try, you have a fit, and tell me how much I hate your cooking. You're always the victim."

"Not in front of Leroy, Jerry."

For lads, they didn't half moan at each other.

The house wasn't terribly big, but it really was lovely inside. Mahogany floors. Burgundy drapes. A white stone fireplace. An exact replica of Michelangelo's David.

Hold on. Rewind.

Michelangelo's David? Odd. Well, I suppose Greek art is in these days.

A grand piano. A Bluthner, to boot! Father never approved of Muggle instruments, but I always wanted to learn the piano. On top of it were photographs of Sam and Jerry. I wondered if they were brothers. Do they let brothers take in foster children? No, there has to be a wife in the picture somewhere.

Above the mantle was an old portrait of a girl alongside a lion, a scarecrow, and a―robot wielding an axe? There was something very uncanny going on.

Ah, this was more like it―a personal bar. I'd be raiding this soon enough. Funny, there seemed an awful lot more mixes than there did spirits. Tonic―okay, if you had the right gin. Bitters―I suppose you couldn't have an Old-Fashioned without it. Appletini―

Appletini? Now, why should anyone want to drink an Appleti―

Oh.

_OH._

"They're benders!" Had I really said that out loud?

"We prefer 'artistic', thanks," Jerry said, with pursed lips.

Sam, the tweedy one, laughed. "Yes, Leroy. We're 'benders'. I hope that's okay with you, but we understand if it might take some getting used to."

I've never known gay people. I mean, the whole Charlie Weasley thing was funny and all; but knowing that, in the other room, your minders were likely engaging in strange acts concerning the colorectal cavity did not bode very well with me.

"Do they even let you people adopt?"

"_You people?_" Jerry said, outraged. "Firstly, Leroy, we didn't 'adopt' you. What's more, I'm beginning to think we ought send you right back―"

"Right," Sam said, interrupting him. "So, Leroy, how about dinner?"

* * *

><p>"I know a canopy bed is a bit frilly, especially with those lace curtains," Sam explained, as they opened the door to my upstairs bedroom, "but we can have it removed if you like."<p>

"We will not," Jerry said. "My mother gave us that bed."

"Because it was too frilly even for her!"

"Oh, just do you what want, then! You've never liked my mother anyway!"

"Ignore him, Leroy. For a gay man, he has the biggest Œdipus complex I've ever known."

Jerry mimed him sardonically from behind, and I hid a snicker. I didn't like them, but they were amusing, at any rate.

"It's fine," I told them, not wanting them to bicker any longer, but also because, honestly, it _was_ fine. Father had said they were too frilly and so had gotten me that dark Victorian one, which I suppose is beautiful too;―but sometimes a boy just wants a canopy.

"Would you like a warm milk?" Sam asked. "It'll help you sleep."

I said, "Not whole I hope." I laid on the bed. Were these satin sheets? Father had always said satin was too gaudy. Oh, but it felt so heavenly.

Jerry scoffed. "_Sam _buy whole milk? That's a laugh!"

Sam cleared his throat. "It's terribly full of fat. I'll pour you a skim."

I rested my hands behind my head, looking up at the billowy sheet of the canopy. "See that you do," I said.

* * *

><p>Well, I was just dosing when there was a <em>rap rap<em> on the window. I thought it was just some branches being blown against it, but, as it grew more insistent, I threw the bed curtains open and switched on the light.

Potter. On a broomstick.

_Rap, rap, rap, rap, RAP!_

"Oh, for God's sake, Potter!"

I opened the window, and he stepped in, rubbing his arms. "It's freezing out there," he said.

"Couldn't you have waited till morning? I was just getting to sleep!"

"Oh, right, because flying my broomstick in broad daylight wouldn't at all be suspicious."

"How did you even find me?"

"I followed the Black Maria, didn't I?"

Oh. "So―you didn't just give up?"

"No! Malfoy, this is no time to start getting all arse-hurt."

"I'm not! It's just―you didn't do anything, did you? You just let them take me away."

"There were two of them and Mr Weasley, and I didn't have my wand. What did you expect me to do, Malfoy, judo chop them?"

"No, I guess not."

"Well, put on something warm, and come on, then."

I looked back at the canopy, and sighed. "Oh, alright. Hold on."

A knock on the door. Harry tried to dive under the bed, but seeing as it was raised only about five inches from the floor, he missed the mark.

"Ow!" he yelled. "Piss!"

Sam opened the door. "Is everything al―?" he had begun to say; as Harry stood up painfully, rubbing his forehead.

Then Jerry popped his head in, saw the lot of us, and said, "Ooh, is it a party?"

I rolled my eyes. "This is Potter. Er―Harry, I suppose."

"Leroy, you really should have told us―" Sam began, but Jerry cut in.

"Oh, don't be such a stick in the mud, Sam. Though, I know you've had years of experience. ― You hungry, Harry? Leroy here couldn't finish all the peach cobbler, and _Sam_ doesn't want us eating sugary things so―"

Well, if Harry was in any hurry to leave earlier, he certainly didn't show it now. "Peach cobbler, you say..."

Jerry motioned for us to follow, saying, "Come on! Back to the kitchen everyone!"

And, indeed, to the kitchen we all went; where we watched as Harry wharfed down the remaining half a peach cobbler in a matter of seconds; after which we took to the living room, where Sam got on the piano and asked us if we had any requests. Well, stone me if Potter didn't leap to his toes and treat us all to an ear-melting rendition of something called _Papa, Can You Hear Me? _Jerry leant over and said, "He can, darling, and he's not impressed"; but he patted him on the back anyway, and told him he was the next big sensation.

Jerry was up next, to give us to a medley of hits from―_Showboat_, was it? Harry plopped down beside me on the sofa looking very proud of himself.

"Was I good?" he asked.

This boy was deluded. "Potter, a dying moose could sing better than you."

"You're only jealous," he said.

"You're dreaming, Potter, and you ought to wake up."

He only laughed and politely cheered whenever Jerry hit a high note. As Jerry began to sing that he couldn't, quote, "help lovin' dat man o' mine", Harry leant in closer to me and asked, "Erm, Malfoy, are they―you know?"

"Sorry?"

"You know. Are they―?"

I rolled my eyes. "Oh grow up, Potter!"

"_Me _grow up? You're the one who was reading to me out that gay magazine!"

Of course, Jerry had finished his song in the middle of Potter's last statement; and now he and Sam were looking at us very strangely.

* * *

><p>"Good job, Potter! Now they think we're right pair of mincing benders," I said, as we returned to my bedroom.<p>

Both Sam and Jerry had gone to bed themselves, as they had work in the morning; but they had said that, should he like to, Potter could spend the night, allowing of course his parents approved it.

"Oh God," Potter said, flushing a bright red. "Maybe they think you and I are―"

"Don't be disgusting, Potter!"

He sat down at the vanity table. "How mortifying! Maybe that's why they didn't offer me the guest room. They thought we'd―"

"Potter, if you say another word, I _will_ throw you out that window."

Potter allowed himself a little shudder, which I was certain I should take as an insult, but I didn't say anything. After a moment, he said, "So, are we going, then?"

"Well, we're certainly not staying here and listening to any more of your repertoire, I'll tell you that much."

"I've got talent, Malfoy, and you can't stand it."

"Okay, well, back in the real world, I've got a curse to undo, so how about we fuck off out of here, shall we?"

Harry retrieved the broom he had hidden in the armoire. "We can go to Hermione. She's always been good at solving things."

"_More_ Muggles? Really?"

"Get used to it, Malfoy," he said, as we straddled the broomstick. Ahem. _Got on_ the broomstick. "You're a Muggle yourself now."

"How would you like to be murdered, Potter?" I asked, a frosted gust whipping through my hair the instant we soared out the window. "I vote 'slow and painfully'."

* * *

><p><strong>Review! And, yes, I know I've run the gamut on gay stereotypes, but as a gay lad myself, I find them to be an endless source of comedy.<strong>


	4. 4 Harry Potter

**Draco Malfoy, Muggle**

****by Jacob Oliver****

**Chapter 4. Harry Potter.**

* * *

><p>Gale-winds and a great storm fought bitterly against us as we flew to the Grangers' flat. My jacket was terribly flimsy and fraying with age; and all I had underneath was a T-shirt, and both were heavily soaked. It was absolutely freezing cold, and I was sure I had hypothermia and was only minutes away from an ugly, frostbitten death;―and for what? For Draco Malfoy, my arch-foe, who was, at present, happily sporting a weather-proof blazer he'd stolen from Sam. Bastard.<p>

My teeth were chattering like an automatic typewriter, and I kept having to flip my soaked hair out of my eyes. What's more, I could hardly see a thing, as my glasses were covered in rain.

"Would you stop shivering, Potter?" Draco demanded. "You're shaking the broom and giving me motion sickness."

"Don't make me turn this broom around, Malfoy!" I yelled at him. "I'll turn right around and drop you in Brixton, and we'll see how you get on there!"

"Alright, Potter! My goodness, aren't you a gloomy Gus?"

"I'm wet and freezing, Malfoy!"

"Well, that's hardly my fault, is it? I didn't ask for it to rain."

"This is _all_ your fault, Malfoy. I shouldn't bloody be here. I'm so stupid."

"Oh, settle down, Potter. It can't be much further. Whereabouts are we?"

"Not near enough, anyway. A mile or so outside London, going northeast."

Thunder rolled ferociously in our ears, and right before our eyes, an immense crack of light shot from a low hanging cloud, flaring straight down to the city below.

"Right," I said. "We're stopping to let the storm settle." I dove downwards.

"Are you joking, Potter? And where do you propose we go?"

"I don't care. We'll huddle under bus station or something. The storm can't last all night."

"There!" Malfoy said, as we got a good ways down. "There's a park just a little distance away. We can stay in that gazebo."

We ducked through some tall trees and heavy branches, soared past the playground, skimmed over the lake, and touched down just outside the gazebo. We dismounted and ran in as quickly as we could.

It was dry inside, for the most part, though there was a tiny break in the ceiling which let some rain drip in, but we avoided that area. There was a bench in the middle, and we both collapsed upon it, panting.

And though I was sheltered finally, being stationary seemed to worsen the cold for me. I could now truly feel just how drenched I was. The water had completely soaked through my jacket, my shirt, my skin; and I was positive it'd gone through to my marrow. I was literally sloshing as I moved. My head pounded, my teeth were going berserk, and, despite the fact that I had contracted into a tight ball on the bench, I couldn't stop shivering so violently.

Malfoy sat quite still and shook his hair, splashing even more water onto me. "Is it me or is it warm?" he asked nonchalantly.

"What?"

"Well, now we're in here and dry, to be honest, I'm really rather warm." He stood up and took off his coat―to reveal another coat.

If the weakness and stupor of a decreased pulse and respiratory rate hadn't rendered me utterly debilitated, I would have strangled him to death and thrown his body in the lake.

"You had _two_ coats!" I practically shrieked.

"But didn't I mention?"

"No, you didn't 'mention'!"

"Well, I do. As well as a lovely wooly cardigan. So, you can understand how blistering it is underneath it all."

Sometimes, in cases of severe hypothermia, the heart rate can spike, something like an atrial fibrillation or whatever. In any case, I saw red. I leapt up and shoved him back.

"Potter, what on earth!"

"You're hot, are you, Malfoy?" I was shouting. "You need to cool down, do you?"

"Potter, have you lost your mind?"

I shoved him out of the gazebo and into the rainstorm.

"What are you playing at, Potter?"

He tried to get back in, but I kept shoving at him; and though he tried to fight back, he's utterly useless. He was still wearing his other coat, and was likely still "blistering", so I did him the favour of ripping it off him.

"What in God's name, Potter?"

"I'm helping you cool off, Malfoy. That's what you want, right?" I threw it to the grass, and, turning back to him, saw that indeed he was wearing a rather warm and wooly cardigan.

"No!" he shouted. "Not the _cardigan!_ It fits my contours so perfectly!"

I grabbed at it, and we struggled; but it soon tore off with a satisfying _pop,__ pop, __pop _of the buttons.

"Still hot, Malfoy?"

"You're mad, Potter! You've had your fun; now let me alone." He was backing up toward the lake. Just one more shove and―

―the bastard grabbed me, and we both lost our footing and dove head-first into the lake. We were completely submerged, struggling and clawing at each other, and the water was bitterly cold. We quickly surfaced, kicking our legs below us and gasping for air, as all around the heavy rain barraged the waves. We inhaled water and hacked it out and drifted farther away from the shore; and we soon cottoned on to the fact that strangling one another in an overflowing lake would probably drown us both. Presently, therefore, we silently truced and swam back to the land. We crawled onto the dirt, panting and coughing, and collapsed onto our backs as the storm pelted us in the face.

I was ready to pounce at him again, but seeing how horrified Malfoy looked as he peeled the mud and leaves off his perfect blonde hair made me snort instead.

"You've gone mad, Potter. You bloody well nearly killed us both! My new cardigan is ruined!"

"Oh, shut up, you big priss," I said, and gave him another shove, though more gently this time.

"You know, when we've sorted this whole thing out, Potter, I'll have you killed for this."

* * *

><p>Well, so long as we were both drenched, we thought, 'Why not brave the storm?' So after about half an hour, flying through squall and thunder, we reached the block of flats where the Grangers lived. Their lift was always a bit wonky, so I just soared up to where I knew her bedroom was and tapped at the glass.<p>

The light turned on, and, upon seeing us, Hermione threw open the window.

"Harry! Get in, get in!" We did, and dripped all over her nice white carpet. She gave me a tight embrace whilst expressing her complete and unrelenting disapprobation of our "flying about in a hurricane."

"Hermione, we're fine, really."

"_I'm_ not," Malfoy interjected. "I'm cold and wet, and it's all Potter's fault."

"Erm―hi there," Hermione said to him.

"Oh, right," I said, "Hermione this is Draco."

"Hi Draco," she said, holding out her hand. "Do you go to Hogwarts?"

"Really, Granger," he said, not taking it, "less small talk, more getting me a towel."

"Sorry, Hermione," I cut in. "Draco's a bit of a shit. I'll explain later. Though a towel would be quite handy, actually."

So we dried off;―well, I did anyway. Draco decided that he'd like a warm bath, which didn't sound that bad an idea, actually, other than having to be submerged in water again. He went off to bathroom, and I was just about to explain the whole situation to Hermione when―

"Potter! Potter!"

"What? I'm talking to Hermione, give me a second."

"Come quick, Potter!" His voice was gleeful, so I thought it couldn't be good.

I sighed and asked Hermione to excuse me for a moment. "If you're anything but fully clothed when I come in, Malfoy―!" I called out.

"You wish, Potter!"

I walked over to the bathroom, which was a bit down the hall. Malfoy stood just outside of it;―and if one could somehow have disgust and amusement playing upon one's features simultaneously, that's what I saw on his face.

"Go inside, Potter."

"What?"

"Go inside."

"Why?"

"It's not a trick, Potter. Just do it."

I can't say I wasn't wary or skeptical, but I shook my head and opened the door anyway. And before I could even enter―ye Gods, the stench.

"So," he said, "that is what your lovely lady friend's feces smells like. I thought you might want to know."

I instantly covered my nose and slammed the door shut. "Malfoy, you're more disgusting than I ever imagined."

"_I'm_ disgusting? What about that smell? Doesn't she know a neutralizing charm? Or how to crack open a bloody window?"

"Malfoy, stop! She didn't know we were coming, did she?"

"But Potter, come on, it was _putrid_, right?"

"What are you and Draco laughing about?" I heard Hermione call from her room.

"Shhhh!" I said to Malfoy.

"_Me? _You're the one giggling like a little schoolboy."

"It's all your fault, Malfoy! You're horrid, absolutely horrid!"

Hermione must have grown impatient because, in a second, she had come over to us. Oh pretty, bonny-faced Hermione. "What's going on, Harry?"

"Nothing!" I heard my voice crack. "Nothing, honest!" I turned to Malfoy and smirked. "So, go on. Why don't you have that bath, then?"

His eyes widened in what could only be characterised as blood-curdling terror. "Not bloody likely, Potter!"

* * *

><p>She'd given us some of her father's old clothes to wear while ours were slung on the radiator to dry. Luckily, both of Hermione's parents were on a business trip, so we could use the place more freely.<p>

"Harry, what are you doing?" she asked, as I got the sugar and vanilla extract out of the pantry.

"What does it look like, Hermione?" I said and reached for an egg, "I'm baking a cake. Honestly, am I the only one who likes food?"

"You know how to bake, Potter?" Malfoy asked with a quirked brow.

"Well, back at the Dursley's I'm the scullery maid, footman, hall boy, and cook all in one." I opened the fridge. "Doesn't anyone use whole milk anymore? I'll just have to add extra cream. So here's the story, Hermione. He's Draco Malfoy."

"You're a Malfoy?"

"Not just any Malfoy," I said, measuring a half a teaspoon of cinnamon sugar. "He's Lucius Malfoy's son."

"But Lucius Malfoy never―"

"Yes, yes, Granger, we know," Malfoy cut in. "Potter, do we really have to go through all this again?"

"Yes, Malfoy," I said. And as I beat the mix, I explained the entire story.

Hermione listened intently throughout, never interrupting. It was hard to tell if she believed us or not, because she didn't react in any way. I suppose she was just absorbing the information given her, the way Hermione always does. I left out certain events, like the lakeside tumble and her pooey bathroom, but I managed to hit all the important bits, like going to the Burrow and Mr Weasley's ratting us out. When I'd finished, I asked, "So―do you believe us?"

She looked thoughtful for a moment and then said, "Well, Harry, I can't imagine why you'd want to make up a story like that." She paused. "So, _all_ of us have had our memories altered?"

"Except me, but that's basically that the gist of it, yeah."

"But that's impossible. There's no spell like that. None that I've ever read, anyway. Maybe there's a dark spell―?"

"I've never heard of one," Malfoy contributed.

We turned to him.

"Not that I―ahem―would know anything about all that."

"Well, there has to be _something_," Hermione finally said, "because it's happened. We just need to find out what."

"This is why we came here, Potter?" Malfoy said, irritably. "We travelled through a winter storm, risked lightning strikes and pneumonia, so that Granger can tell us that _'something' _has happened? Oh, bravo, Granger, gold star, move to the front of the queue, you've just solved the mystery."

Hermione frowned at him, and then, turning to me, said, "He _is_ a bit of a shit, isn't he?"

Malfoy snorted. "Don't talk to me about _shit, _Granger."

"Malfoy!" I dropped my spatula in the batter and had to fish it out. "Right, come on, less insults, more thinking."

"I don't know why you're even helping him, Harry," Hermione said. "If he _is_ Draco Malfoy, isn't he meant to be the enemy?"

I looked at him as I stirred, wondering indeed why the hell I _was_ helping him. He was sneering at Hermione and looking at everything in the flat with contempt. He was a spoiled, cruel, arrogant boy, who, despite breeding, had no manners to show for it.

What was I doing?

"Right, shall we start again, _Malfoy_?" Hermione said finally. "What did you say your current identity's meant to be called?"

Malfoy shivered at the name. "Leroy Bucket."

"Middle name?"

"Er―I think the form on the papers said―" And he mumbled something we didn't quite catch.

"What was that?"

Mumbles again.

"Malfoy," I said, "if you don't tell us, we're not going to be able to help you, are we? What's the middle name?"

He grumbled a bit, then sighed and said, "Ashley."

I hid my face and stirred harder.

"Shut up, Potter; it's not funny!"

"Alright! Sorry―" (pause for effect) "―_Ashley_."

"Good," Hermione said. "That's a―strange enough name. If a Leroy Ashley Bucket does exist, it'll be easily traceable. Let's start there."

"And what can we possibly gain from that, Granger?" Malfoy said.

"More than what we have now," I answered for her, setting the oven to Gas 3, "which is nothing."

"Every puzzle has pieces," Hermione continued. "Leroy Ashley Bucket might just be the first piece."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Does she always talk in metaphor, Potter, or has she started to _become_ the books she's read?"

* * *

><p>It was a damned good cake, if I must say so myself. Hermione was complaining that she'll not fit into her new jeans, but it didn't stop her from getting a second slice. I wondered if Malfoy liked it. He stared down at the fudge and chocolate icing and looked up at me, a bit speculative.<p>

"Potter, will this stop my heart?"

"Yes, but it's rapture for the mouth."

He took a portion of it with his fork and brought it to his lips. I watched as he chewed it and swallowed, his Adam's apple sliding along with it as it went down. "Well?"

He didn't reply.

I tapped my foot impatiently.

"What do you want, Potter, a commemorative plaque? Don't pester me." And he had another forkful, and I knew he liked it! I gave him a triumphant look, and he rolled his eyes at me; but I knew I'd won. He liked my cake.

Hermione had begun a bit of a cooking experiment, herself. She was brewing an aging potion, which was rather advanced even for an adult wizard. I knew Malfoy was itching to help out, but he was too proud to offer his assistance. Instead, he kept passing by every two minutes to criticise her slicing methods and measurements, hoping, I suppose, that she might ask him to take over. Of course his chastisements only caused her to get increasingly annoyed until finally she forbade him from coming any closer than five feet, and set a restraining charm to enforce it.

She continued working, and Malfoy and I ended up dosing on the sofa. After an hour or so, we were woken by her victorious proclamation of "Done!" She began to pour the potion into two vials, which she stoppered; and we tried to come over to her, but we had a bit of a hitch in our get-along.

"Granger," Malfoy said, "kindly remove the restraints."

She smirked but did so.

"Okay," she said, "I've modified the potion to make us grow to be exactly thirty years old. Harry, will you remember the story we've come up with?"

"You and I are a childless married couple looking to adopt a teenage boy," I recapitulated for good measure; "that is, particularly one who is white and blonde."

Malfoy laughed. "And what'll you call yourselves? Eva Braun and Adolf?"

"It's standard adoption procedure," Hermione continued. "They'll match us up with the physical attributes we desire. Then they'll search the files, and when we get to Leroy Bucket, we'll inquire about him."

Before she could say anything more, however, there was a knock on the door, and we rushed to hide the potions supplies.

"Who could that be at one in the morning?" I asked, lifting up the heavy pot and hiding it under the kitchen sink.

"Maybe we were being too noisy," Hermione said. "Mrs Sudbury next door is getting on, and she's always complaining about noise. ― Don't forget the jar of mandrake root."

I picked it up and placed it in the cupboard.

"Who is it?" Hermione asked, not yet opening the door.

"Hi, Hermione. It's Mr Weasley. Sorry for the bother, but can I come in?"

Malfoy and I turned to each other in alarm. They must have found out that Malfoy had run away from foster care. And, considering that I took off from the Burrow without a goodbye or word of warn, they probably suspected that I had a hand in it.

"Erm―" Hermione began, looking back at us helplessly. "Sure, just one moment! I'm not exactly dressed."

"Okay," Mr Weasley said. There were other voices in the background, but I couldn't quite make them out.

"Go," Hermione said, "and take these." She held out the vials.

"What?" I said. "But you have to come, too. I need you to play my wife."

"You two will have to do it," she said, and I could feel my cheeks burning.

"Definitely out of the question!" Malfoy replied, decidedly appalled at the prospect. "I'm not going to be Potter's wife! You can just forget it."

_Knock, knock, knock. _"Almost ready, Hermione?"

"Nearly, Mr Weasley!" She thrust the vials at Malfoy and said, "Well, it's not me who's cursed, Malfoy, so I frankly do or don't do whatever the hell you want. But for now, _shove off_."

We ran to Hermione's room, threw on the dried jackets, jumped on the broom, and were once again pummelled by the wind and rain.

* * *

><p>Well, we ended up spending the night in the gazebo again. There was no other place I could think to go. The Burrow was a definite non-option; and, if the Ministry <em>did<em> know I was behind Malfoy's escape, they'd be watching Privet Drive, too. So, here we were, Malfoy spread out comfortably on the bench, and I shivering on the cold concrete. The rain pattered noisily on the roof and kept me awake.

Moreover, I really was terribly nervous about tomorrow. Malfoy was clearly disgusted by the idea of the two of us pretending to be a couple. And yet, I wasn't exactly sure how_ I_ felt. I mean, it definitely was negative, don't get me wrong. But I wasn't sure that it was _disgust_ precisely. The prospect to me was more―weird and awkward and mortifying.

I looked up at Malfoy. He was perfectly still but for his breath; his hands were folded on his lap, his lips only slightly parted. Even when sleeping on a park bench he exuded grace, as though he were back in his bed-chamber in the Manor. There was no doubt about it. He was a Malfoy.

* * *

><p>It was a stroke of luck that we'd had on Mr Granger's clothes because when we turned thirty we grew quite a bit more. We'd likely have been suffocated in our own clothing.<p>

The sun had come out by the time we walked, side-by-side, into the We Care Adoption Agency. We didn't have to wait long and were speedily led into a cubicle by a lady in a turquoise dress suit called Ms Higham.

"Are you a loving couple?" she asked, as we sat down in front of her.

"Yes," I said, "we er―love each other very much. Don't we, William?"

"Why not?" Malfoy said, and I glared at him, so he added, "Yes."

"Because I've absolutely no interest in putting children in households that might end in messy break-ups. I need to be sure that you two are committed to one another." She straightened her brooch.

"We're very committed, I assure you," I said.

She looked us up and down, inspecting us for an agonizingly long interval, and I felt terribly self-conscious. It was as though she were searching for some evidence that we really were together. It was all very awkward, and I had no idea how to act; and before I knew I had done it, I had reached over and taken Malfoy's hand in my own.

It was warm and soft, and yet every muscle tightened at my touch; and I could feel him initially fight the urge to yank it away. What had I done? _Oh God, I was holding _Draco Malfoy's_ hand._ My heart was beating in my ears, and I could feel my body temperature shoot up feverishly; but, with great difficulty, I forced my cheeks to put on a winning smile for the agent. Finally, after what seemed quite a long while, he let his hand finally relax; and I found myself letting out a breath I hadn't even known I'd held.

"Right," Ms Higham said."We put your specifications into the system and received a few entries."

She led us through about twenty before we got to Leroy Ashley Bucket. Thank God his surname started with a "B", or else we'd have been there for God knows how long.

"He sounds a winner," Malfoy said. "Can you tell us more about him?"

"Well, as I said he was orphaned very young. And it seems he was born in America."

Malfoy bristled. "He most certainly was _not_!"

"I beg your pardon?" the agent said.

"I mean," he said, "isn't 'Bucket' typically an English name?"

"I'm not a genealogist, Mr Seymour," she said sharply. "I can only tell you what's on the file."

"Where in America was he born?" I asked.

"Let's have a look here. Peckerton Swamp, Mississippi. Wherever that is."

* * *

><p>Malfoy was wiping his hand obsessively on his trousers. "Where do you get off holding my hand? You're sick, Potter!"<p>

We had ducked behind an alleyway to let the potion wear off, and Malfoy was busily having a fit.

"She kept staring at us!" I attempted to explain. "She was looking for some sign of affection!"

"I'll have to get it amputated, now. At least it was the left."

"Oh, stop being so melodramatic!"

"It was traumatic, Potter! I'm sorry I couldn't get off on it, like you!"

"What! I didn't―! Fuck off, Malfoy!"

We walked down the road until we found a telephone-booth. Malfoy didn't come in. I suppose getting into a tight space with me after the little hand holding escapade would not have been quite the order of the day for him.

I sighed in relief when I found enough change in my pocket. I dialled Hermione.

"Hello?"

"Hermione! Thank God! Are they still there?"

"No, they've gone. But they had a lot of questions. I think I passed."

"Good. Now look, I don't know if this means anything, but Leroy Bucket is an American. From a town in Mississippi."

She didn't respond.

"Hermione?"

"I'm here, Harry. I'm just―. Something Mr Weasley said..." She sounded deeply contemplative. "We should meet. Not here though, they might still be watching. Plus, we'll need to do some research."

"What's going on?" I said. "What did Mr Weasley say?"

"Is there a library nearby?"

"Yes, I think so. I think I saw one a block or two down."

"Good. Go there. I'll meet you as fast I can."

* * *

><p>We were crowded around a computer booth, and the librarian was trying to teach us how to access the digital archives; but Hermione grabbed hold of the mouse.<p>

"Yes, yes," she said. "I know how it works. We'll call if we need anything."

The librarian sniffed and seemed quite put out, but she left anyway. Typical Hermione,―completely at home in a library.

She clicked and clacked away, and Malfoy gazed with disguised amazement at the strange new piece of Muggle technology.

"Hermione," I said, "won't you tell us what you heard from Mr Weasley?"

"Oh right. Well, he mentioned that Leroy was American."

"Yes, yes, we already know that," Malfoy said testily. "The adoption agency just told us."

"But that's just it," Hermione replied, in her knowing sort of way. "Mr Weasley didn't find out from the adoption agency. He found out through the Aperio potion. Your hair strand revealed that you were American."

"That's a load of old bollocks, and you know it!" Malfoy shouted, and the librarian gave us a violent look that rivalled that of Madam Pince.

"Don't you see, Malfoy?" Hermione said. "It's not only that people's memories of you been altered, but that, in fact, you yourself, your very essence, has been changed."

"But wait," I said. "That's impossible. Everyone's said there's no such spell that can do that!"

"We'll worry about that later, Harry. For now, let's work with what we've got." She clicked on something that opened up something else;―I was never very good with computers. "There's an article here. It's a―" (she paused) "―an obituary." She turned to Malfoy. "You're dead."

* * *

><p><strong> Review, my apple dumplings!<strong>


	5. 5 Draco Malfoy

**Draco Malfoy, Muggle**

****by Jacob Oliver****

**Chapter 5. Draco Malfoy.**

* * *

><p>The obituary says that I was the victim of a rather brutal knife attack. Muggles really are most savage when it comes to murder. <em>Avada Kedavra<em>, on the other hand, is quick, painless, and you don't stain your dinner jacket with an excess of blood and spleen excretion. Granted, in both cases, the bowels and bladder are flushed clean down your trouser leg, but that simply is unavoidable in cases of extreme terror.

At any rate, a second article was found;―this pertaining to Leroy's parents. It was under the heading:

_Tynemouth couple stabbed to death near their home._

Seemed we'd all gotten the blade. It was dated only a month ago.

Potter argued that it couldn't have been a coincidence;―that is, their having been murdered and then, shortly after, all this to-do happening. I said, "Potter, this is the Northeast we're talking about. There are three things one does in the Northeast:―drink, stab, and go out shirtless in the winter. It's hardly an isolated incident."

Naturally, we didn't agree; but, in any case, another interesting bit of information caught our attention:

_Their teenaged son, Leroy, escaped unharmed. He has not since returned, however, and both police and Child Services are still out searching for him._

"Hold on," I said. "So am I alive or what? Go back to the obituary."

_Leroy Bucket, 16, died in an horrendous knife attack, screaming, weeping, and pleading for his life till the last skewer._

"Doesn't exactly paint the bravest picture, does it?" Potter said. "But considering it was _you_..."

"Fuck off, Potter. Now listen, it's a pretty strange obituary, isn't it? I mean, most of them are: 'Died peacefully at such-and-such retirement village. Will be missed.' Bucket's seems rather out of place."

"Malfoy's right," Granger said, redundantly as she does. "Why would somebody leave such a gruesome obituary? It just isn't done. And moreover, this person must have been a witness to the stabbing itself."

We "printed off" copies of both articles, and went round outside the library, and into another one of those glass containers which housed the telephone service thingummy. We called the newspaper that had run the obituary. They would neither attest to or deny anyone's death, as all private obituaries run are placed by the family and friends of the deceased party. And, useless as the press were, they would not release the identity of the person who had submitted it. It's hardly Witness Protection; they'd only run an ad,―but it "was against policy &c.," and so we finalised the telephone interchange with a firm slam of the held contraption onto its stationary counterpart, and turned to the next best thing. The murder article―written by Douglas P. Windom.

Going back inside the library, we proceeded to find the reporter's address on the "World Wide Web", as they call it. As far as Muggle inventions went, this box with the clicky-thing wasn't half-bad; but I kept mum and busied myself writing the address down. _7 Biddlewood Terrace, Heaton._

"Well," I said, clapping my hands, "let's get a Veritaserum brewing, what?"

"We're not drugging him, Malfoy," said Granger, being very stupid, indeed; "we'll call him up and ask―"

"Because that worked out swimmingly with the press, didn't it? Don't be dense, Granger. Aren't you meant to be the booky one? Windom's not going to talk unless we make him."

"I draw the line, Malfoy," she said, "at illegally drugging Muggles. _You _do it if you like, but leave us out of it." She got up and took Potter's arm.

_Oh no, you don't, you bitch!_ I grabbed him by the wrist, which was rather limp, really, and I would have made a joke about it if circumstances had been slightly more convenient.

"Potter, I can't brew a potion! You know I haven't got any magic. Plus, how am I meant to get to Newcastle? I haven't the money to take a train, and one simply cannot abide coach travel. Come on, Potter, be reasonable. It's a good lead, and you know it!"

"Let him go!" she shouted, and pulled at him.

"You let him go, Granger!" I said, and pulled harder.

"Harry, listen to me!" she said. "You can get into _serious_ trouble! There are very harsh punishments for Wizards who use magic against Muggles."

"Oh, do shut up, Granger," I said. " Do you always have to be so frightfully _concerned_ about everything? It's so nauseatingly middle-class. If Potter wants to help me, that's his own business; so why don't you stop being such a meddling old harpy, and hold your beak. And for God's sake, they're only bloody Muggles! Who cares if you use a bit of Abracadabra on them?" Okay, maybe not the most convincing rebuttal, but she really did get on one's tits.

"Malfoy!" Potter said, yanking his wrist from my grasp. "That's enough! You're so wrapped up with yourself that you don't give a toss about what happens to anyone else! Well, maybe this is for the best. It's harsh, I know, but perhaps living life as a Muggle is the only way to get you to grow up."

"You can't justify what's happened to me by saying, 'Maybe you'll learn a bloody lesson'! You can't just leave me like this!"

"I won't," he said; "that is, I'll fly you back to your foster parents."

"What!"

"Or I can just leave you here, Malfoy. In the inner-city with graffiti at every at every corner and a broken lamp-post every two streets, but it's up to you."

I could have broken Granger's jaw the way she smiled victoriously at me, but she packed a powerful punch herself; and though I'm certainly no coward, I find there to be no need for unnecessary violence, especially in a library.

I locked eyes with Potter for a few seconds, but his whole manner was unrelenting. Very calmly and a bit softly, I said, "It's a good lead. You know it is. I need this, Potter. I _need_ this."

He made no reply but to turn and lead us out the library. Unfeeling bastard. Well, I only hoped Sam and Jerry hadn't yet noticed I'd disappeared and made a big to-do of the matter. We walked to the alley behind the building, where we'd hidden the broom, though I didn't know how Potter intended on flying us back in broad daylight.

"Hermione," Potter said, "I need to cast a concealing charm. Do you have your wand?"

She pulled it out of her jacket―hideous mauve number with uneven stitching―, and she handed it to him.

"You'll regret this, Potter," I said, and turning to Granger―"And you, you mad bitch, when I get my magic back―"

"Get on and shut up, Malfoy," Potter said, beginning to cast the charm; and I figured I oughtn't carry on now, but, rather, on the flight over, convince him to see proper sense. Well, when I got on, stone me if Potter didn't say, "Grab hold, Malfoy!" and shoot off into the wind and blue, whilst Granger shouted at us, "Harry! What do you think you're doing? My wand!"

Well, I hadn't seen that coming. He's a far better liar than I took him for. "I knew you were bluffing all along," I said, and swore liberally at Granger until we were fully out of earshot.

"Malfoy, stop!" Potter yelled at me. "We're concealed, but we can still be heard!"

"I take it then that we're not going to Sam and Jerry's delightful little semi-detached?"

He heaved a deep sigh. "No."

"Good show, Potter! That'll teach that bushy-haired cow to―"

"Malfoy! Look, I'm not happy about this. I just―"

"And you stole her wand!" I continued, laughing most divertedly; and I even ventured to pat him on the back. "What a horrid, disloyal, little turd of a friend you are, Potter! If I were Granger I'd never speak to you again. Did you see her face when we took off? She looked ready to kill you!"

"Shut up! That's an _order_, Malfoy! You've lost the privilege to speak for the course of this journey. And _if_ you say another word," he said, quite peremptorily, if I'm honest, "I will turn back and you can deal with this on your own. Do I make myself clear?"

"Whatever."

"And I'm not disloyal! Hermione just―she can be a bit idealistic. But the fact of the matter is it _is_ a good lead. And, with the Ministry on our tail, we need to move quickly."

I didn't know whether Potter indeed had a hero complex, or loved the thrill of the chase, or simply wanted to catch a baddie, but I suppose having him on one's side was never a terribly bad thing. Rather irritating and almost always unbearable, but considering he's rather seasoned in swashbuckling adventures, one makes allowances.

It would be a long trip to Newcastle, and I wondered when it would be appropriate to mention that I really needed the lavatory.

* * *

><p>"I need the lavatory."<p>

"Can't you hold it?"

"I've _been_ holding it, Potter."

"Can't you hold it some more? We're right at cruising altitude, and it'll be a bugger to go down now."

"Very well, Potter, but, considering I'm straddling you, if you feel your bottom moisten, it's not because we've gone through a patch of cloud."

We nose-dived.

"You really do have a way of being utterly inappropriate, Malfoy."

It was farms and fields below us; and, however disinclined I am to relieve myself under the penetrating gaze of billy-goats gruff, one must answer nature's call whatever the circumstance.

We landed with a skid along the mud; and, the both of us having dismounted, Potter placed a hand on his hip and said, "Hurry up."

"There isn't a tree or a bush or anything."

"What are you, a dog, Malfoy? Just do it."

"Can you―hide yourself?"

He snorted. Bastard. "You're not pee shy, are you?" He quirked an eyebrow. "Is it―miniscule?"

"Fuck off, Potter! I'll have you know it's _gargantuan!_ I simply don't want you getting all hot and bothered by the sight of it."

Potter rolled his eyes at me and turned around. "There. Now make it quick."

I―ahem―proceeded, when, half-way through, Potter said, "Are you done yet?"

"Shut up, Potter! Don't talk to me while I'm―just shut up!"

After I had finished, Potter was eager to shoot off again, but frankly, one's backside can only take so much of a broom-handle―_hem!_―that is, a wooden broomstick does not make a very good seat. I asked Potter if we couldn't just take the train and Imperio the ticket-collector. I suppose I couldn't honestly have expected a response in the affirmative, but he did offer that we could have a rest over at the grass, as he was a bit sore himself.

We walked over to a grassy patch, shooing away the goats and sheep, and had a quiet sit down. I can't say the landscape was breathtaking―your standard hilly land, green here and there, and quite muddy in most places. I asked if lunch was in order.

"Of course, Malfoy. You start the fire, and I'll slaughter one the animals. How do you like your lamb?"

"Shut up, Potter. Just transfigure a rock into a sandwich or something."

"I don't know how to do that. McGonagall's hardly gone over turning sediment into a bacon and sausage bap, has she?"

"Well then, Potter, when we do get to Newcastle, how exactly are we going to eat?"

"I have―some money."

"How much?"

"A tenner."

"Jolly good. Well, I suppose starving to death beats burning at the stake."

"We'll worry about food when we get there. Let's just relax for now, okay? We've still a long way's travel ahead of us."

He laid back, and I followed suit. Not that I'm at home in the dirt―as Potter clearly was―, but the grass beneath me felt surprisingly peaceful and calming, and, the last couple of days having taken away all my energy and large chunks of my morale, I found myself blinking and yawning under the mid-December sun.

* * *

><p>It was nearly dark when I'd awoken. I glanced at Potter, who was curled up into an artless ball beside me, still fast asleep. I nudged him, and he merely grunted.<p>

"Potter."

_Grunt, grunt._

I nudged him again, which he followed with murmurs of stern disapprobation, and it was then that I had a marvelous idea. Relaxing my throat and preparing for a cavernous bellow, I called out in deep, furious tones, "BOOOY!"; to which Potter responded with hilarious panic, leaping to his feet and scrambling about in mad disorientation.

"Sorry! Sorry! Right away, Uncle Ver―" he began, until he saw me standing there with a very pleased countenance and arms crossed; and his eyes turned to slits.

"You _bastard_."

"Well, seeing as you're up, shall we fuck off?"

He stomped over to the broom and picked it up. "Unbelievable, Malfoy. You really are unbelievable."

We flew off into the darkening sky with me still laughing rather heartily about Potter's little madcap moment, and Potter being decidedly aggrieved and incredulous and all that tosh. We flew on for―perhaps it was two more hours―until the Millennium Bridge, a strange, lopsided, art-nouveau monster, came into view; and we knew we had finally reached Newcastle. Heaton was only a few minutes north, but I told Potter to slow down the minute I saw a very lush sort of sanctuary in the middle of the city. It was called Jesmond something-or-other, which I had read to be quite abundant in magical plants. My plan of action of course was to collect the necessary ingredients for Veritaserum.

It was a woodland really, a lot of trees and crags and dirt trails―that sort of lark―and even a waterfall of sorts. With a bright Lumos, for it was really rather dark by now, we scoured the ground for the necessary herbs and roots, and―after a half-hour or so of yelling at Potter for bringing me everything from dandelions to woodchips and live salamanders, and telling him to pay more bloody attention in Potions class―I single-handedly collected all the ingredients.

We started a small fire and, working quickly, I prepared the potion for brewing. Potter afterward finalising the magic of it, he boiled the raw Veritaserum in one of the vials that Granger had given us the day prior; and soon enough we were ready to go. I stoppered the container, and, Potter picking up the broom, we both straddled the handle when―

A flash of light shone upon us.

We turned and were instantly blinded by the glare, though I saw the faint flicker of a badge on his Constabulary helmet. "This is a decent park!" said a gruff, almost unintelligible voice―one of the many, I supposed, I would encounter in the Tyneside. "We have no tolerance for dogging, naturism, and other forms of homosexuality!"―This is my own transliteration of his words, of course, because one simply cannot abide the likes of: "Noo tolerance faah doggin', neeah'urism, and 'omosexuali'y."

He paused, running his light up and down."What is that? Is that a―_broom?_ Oh my God! Perverts! Sickos! Right, you're under arrest for lewd, disgusting behaviour in a public―"

"Stupefy. Obliviate."

The man was out before he was down. I looked at Potter, who still had the wand pointed, and I thought, 'Nice one, old boy'; but I settled on a nod, and said, "Right, let's go"―when Potter continued, apparently not yet having finished: "Excremento."

A lot of farty, bubbly, bowel noises. Good God.

"Potter...no..."

He was smiling, and I thought he may just make a Slytherin yet.

"Now I'm done." And we sailed off.

* * *

><p>We finally landed in front of 7 Biddlewood Terrace. I sha'n't be describing the area, for, really, all middle-class suburbs in Britain are exactly the same.<p>

The lights were on inside, so we were relieved he wasn't out on the job or anything.

"How are we going to get him to drink the potion?" Potter asked, as we reached the doorstep.

"Just ring the doorbell, he'll open up, and hocus pocus. Simple. We'll drug him when he's out. Come on, Potter, don't get soft now." And then I added with a smirk, "Just lay off the Excremento, I think."

"You can't tell Hermione I did that. It's really illegal. She'll have a right fit."

"Don't worry, Potter. I won't be taking any chances with Hermione and a spell that conjures up _shit_. You can be sure of that."

Potter laughed a bit too loudly and told me to shut up. "I'll never be able to look at her the same way, Malfoy. And it's all your fault."

"_My_ fault? Potter, I think you'll find it's your blatant sexism that's caused it. Girls shit, too, you know."

"It's not that she's a girl, Malfoy," he insisted. "It's just―I've _never_ smelt anything in my whole life that compares to―to―"

"―the utter putrefaction that is Hermione Granger's bowel movements?" I finished for him. "With that smell, you wonder what it looks like. It can't be normal, can it? Maybe it's green or purple or something."

"Stop!" Potter said, shielding his ears, but still giggling uncontrollably. "For Christ's sake, Malfoy!"

I can't explain it. There's something about Potter's sense of humour that's very innocent and yet so tickled by anything remotely naughty or inappropriate. He's always attempting to dissemble his amusement, but, try as he might and despite himself, he always gives in to it. I'd never noticed this more impish side of him prior to these last few days, but I'll pin it on the fact that the jokes shared between Gryffindor comrades are likely to be knock-knock riddles and school-yard tomfoolery.

Potter took out his wand; and I poised my finger on the bell.

"Get ready, Potter."

_Buzz._

A moment later, the door opened. Mr Windom stood before us inquisitively, and Potter said―"Excremento."

With a look of undiluted horror on his face, Windom grabbed his rapidly spilling bottom, and ran to what I can only hope to be the water-closet. I turned to Potter, very bemusedly.

He went red. "I―I didn't mean to! We'd only just finished talking about it, and it must have slipped out accidentally. I meant to Stupefy him!"

I held my forehead in exasperation, but, honestly, it was very diverting. "Potter―" I said, though I'm sure I was having some difficulty keeping a straight face myself, "we're going to have to wait for him to come out the toilet. Because, blow me if I'm kicking it open now."

We entered the house, shutting the front door behind us. He was clearly single, or else his wife was as much a pig as he. Newspapers and memo's and journals littered the house, and I could see the dirty dishes piled up in the sink. I stepped into the kitchen and a box of pizza―still warm―lay open on the counter. Now, I've never been fond of junk food, but I suppose all the years of calling on the Zabinis had warmed me to Italian cuisine. I picked up a slice, sniffed at it, and took a bite. Well, it couldn't have been that good, but I must have been famished, because before I knew it I was on my second slice.

"Malfoy!" Potter said with that admonishing tone he'd surely acquired from Granger. "We're here to drug and interrogate him―not to steal his food!"

"Are you sure, Potter?" I said, waggling a (according to the box) _Meat Lovers' Supreme_ at him. "The cheese just melts in your palate."

He shoved me aside with the force of a man unrestrained. "You've only left two slices, you pig!" He picked both of them up at once and ate them as a sort of double-layer sandwich.

I looked at him in disbelief. "_I'm _the pig?"

"Ffff mfff, Mmmlllfff!" Which, roughly translated from the dialect of a full mouth, is "Fuck off, Malfoy!"

We heard a door squeak open, and we raced out to the hallway to meet Mr Windom. He'd apparently changed into his bathrobe, which was a rather good thing considering the likely state of his trousers and underthings.

"Potter, quick! Stupefy him!"

"Mmmfff!"

Oh damn.

"Spit out the pizza, for Christ's sake!"

"You stole my pizza?" Windom said, incredulous.

"Hurry up, Potter!"

But with swift reflexes, Windom threw open the closet, pulled out a cricket bat, and, before I knew what had happened, I saw black.

* * *

><p>A splash of cold water on my face. I blinked, and blearily before me was Windom. We were in the kitchen, and I was seated on an old rickety chair, both my hands tied behind my back. To the right of me was Potter in the same predicament. Bugger.<p>

I watched as Windom proceeded to hurl some water on Potter as well, and he slowly came to.

"Oh no," I heard Potter say.

"Foiled by two slices of pizza, Potter," I said. "To think, if Voldemort had whipped out a calzone when he tried to kill you, he may have very well succeeded."

"It was _your _fault, Malfoy!"

"My fault?"

"Yes! I didn't want to eat it, but you started wafting the aroma at me."

"_Wafting_ the aroma? What the hell are you on about! I only asked if you wanted a slice. I didn't say shove the whole box down your gullet."

Windom slammed his hand on the kitchen table, and we both jumped at the reverberation. "Who are you, and why did you break into my house?"

What do we say?

"We're erm―" Potter began.

"You see―" I said.

"We're carolers," Potter decided.

Wouldn't you know it? We're tied to a chair, likely to get murdered by the Cricket Bat Killer, and Potter's ready to burst into another verse of _Papa, Can You Hear Me?_

"_Good King Wenceslaus went out on the Feast of Stephen..._" Potter sang. I say 'sang', but it was more an experiment of free form and arbitrary pitching.

"Right," he said. "If you're not going to tell the truth, I'm calling the police!" He picked up some sort of miniature telephone without a wire or base.

"Wait!" I said, knowing that if we did get nicked, I'd likely get sent back to London. "Look, we'll tell you the truth."

He put the phone down. "I'm listening."

"We came here because of a story you covered in the newspaper."

"And you're pissed off because you think I lied about you, right? And now you've come to exact revenge? Well, let me tell you what I told the last one―_Prove it._" He picked up the phone again. "Now, you're going to jail."

"No!" I said, and then more calmly―"Look, we're investigating something ourselves. Do you remember an article you wrote about a stabbing in Tynemouth? A husband and wife were murdered."

"The Buckets."

"Yes. You wrote that Leroy Bucket, their son, got away. That he wasn't stabbed."

"That's right."

"Well, it's like this. Your story, the murders―it doesn't match up with an obituary that ran shortly after. It said that he died. That he was stabbed to death with his parents."

He laughed. "Anyone can run an obituary. You could call up now, pay a fee, say your cousin has died, and it'd be in print tomorrow morning."

"It was a very strange obituary, and we'd like to find out who had run it."

"So, therefore, you broke into my house and ate my pizza."

"We tried to ask you, but then you ran to the toilet the second you'd opened the door."

"I―. There was a―situation. Which reminds me. What's this?" He picked up Granger's wand.

"Nothing," I said immediately. "Just an old stick. He carries it around for no good reason."

"Why did you keep pointing it at me?"

"I keep telling him not to point it at people," I said, "but he's got no manners, you see. Apologise to him, Potter."

"Sorry."

"There," I said. "Now, will you untie us?"

"One last thing," he said, and he turned around and pulled out the vial of Veritaserum.

"What's this?"

"You went through my pockets!" Potter shouted.

"I had to check if you were carrying any weapons." He swirled the contents of the bottle. "What is it? It doesn't smell like liquor."

"You can't keep us tied up!" Potter said.

"Tell me what it is, or I'm calling the police!"

"Untie us! This is wrongful imprisonment!"

"He's not going to bloody well untie us if you keep yelling at him, is he?" I said.

"It's water," Potter told him.

"Right," he said; "you're lying again." He picked up the phone.

"That does it," said Potter, in a most aggravated tone. He stood as much he was able tied to a chair and, with a running leap, headbutted Windom into the cupboard, knocking the wind out of him. The Veritaserum fell out of his hand and shattered onto the floor. Bugger.

Windom tried to compose himself, but Potter headbutted him again, then spun around and slammed the legs of the chair into the man's side. Windom fell to the ground, moaning in pain; and Potter took this opportunity to lean over the counter―where the wand was situated―and pick it up with his front teeth. He pointed it at Windom, and as intelligibly as one can muster with a wand in one's mouth, he said, "Stup'fy!" Fortunately, the spell was understood by the wand, and Windom was out cold.

"My God, Potter," I said. "You're a mad beast. I'm―I'm impressed."

He leant back over the counter and released Granger's wand.

"But how are we going to get untied?" I asked.

He looked around. "There's a steak knife on the counter. If I get it and give to you, will you be able to saw through your ropes?"

"How the hell am I meant to do that?"

"You just hold it between your wrists and―. Oh forget it. I'll do it, then I'll untie you after. But I can only reach the knife with my mouth; so, for this to work, you have to take it from me, then I'll turn around, and you put it in my hand. Alright?"

"You're going to transfer that knife, which you've slobbered all over, into _my _mouth."

"Yes, and then I turn around and you put it in my hand. Got it?"

"Oh God. I'll likely catch all sorts of diseases."

"Shut up and just do it."

He picked the knife up with his teeth and walked over to me. I stood up to meet him, and, at the very same dreadful, terrifying moment, we both realised what we'd have to do.

He leant slowly toward my face, and his breath was moist and smelt of basil and oregano. As he brought his mouth closer, I realised one of his front teeth had a small chip on it, and I supposed it was to do with Fifth Year when I'd knocked him off his broom during a friendly interhouse Quidditch skirmish. He really ought to have it seen to. I tilted my head sideways and came in to receive the knife, and, at so near a distance, I was startled at how green his eyes really were. They were looking very strangely at me, and I think he noticed that _I_ noticed, for, almost instantly, Potter went a very bright shade of crimson; and he, being the clumsy idiot that he always was, bashed his forehead against me in a weird sort of panic, causing the knife to slip somewhat,―which consequently brought on even more panic; and as we both tried desperately to keep the knife from falling away―God preserve me!―our lips brushed ever so mortifyingly against each other. My own, being of course naturally soft and supple, were very likely cross-grained by his rough, chapped spout. In any case, I was just able to save the knife and get it between my teeth, as Potter stumbled and fell backward in apparently mind-numbing terror.

Picking himself up and saying nothing, he turned around and held open his hands. I leant down, and he retrieved the knife; and slowly but steadily, Potter sawed away.

"Hurry up, Potter, before Windom wakes."

"Nearly there."

He got loose, finally, and soon we were both untied. Now Windom was bound (magically with a Petrificus), and perhaps, at last, we might succeed at squeezing the right answers from him. With a dry sponge, we soaked up as much of the Veritaserum from the lino as we were able.

"Enervate," Potter said, wand pointed at Windom.

He woke and, after a moment's disorientation, said, "What? Oh God! Why can't I move? What's going on?" He looked at Potter. "_You! _You rammed me like a … _ram!_"

"Mobilicorpus."

Windom, with a look of unbridled horror, floated up toward us.

"Oh my God! What are you? Demons! ― _Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee! Blessed art thou amongst_―mmmfff!"

I shoved the sponge in his mouth. It only takes two drops for Veritaserum to have full effect, so a spongeful was more than plenty. He spit it out.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Douglas Phillip Windom. Oh God, save me!"

"How old are you?"

"Fifty-four. What's going on! Are you going to kill me?"

"No! Just answer our questions. Do you remember the article you wrote about the murdered couple in Tynemouth?"

"Yes, I do. Please!―what's this all about?"

"Do you know anything about Leroy Bucket's obituary?"

"No! I already told you! Anyone could have written that!"

"Any idea who?"

"I―I don't know."

"No one comes to mind? Is there anyone you can think of who would have been likely to do it?"

"I don't―maybe."

"Who?"

"Well, there was a neighbour. Two doors down. An old-maid called...Doris Wilcox. One minute, she claimed she had seen him stabbed; the next, she said she'd got it wrong. But I can't imagine why she'd run an obituary for him."

"And you never thought what she said was odd?"

"Maybe a little. But everyone else, all the other neighbours―they all saw what happened. It was a very noisy and boisterous murder. They all said―to me as well as to the police―that Leroy had run away, unharmed. And when Doris said she'd been mistaken, I had no reason to believe otherwise."

"Do you have her address?"

"No. Check the phone-book."

Satisfied, I nodded at Potter, who in turn said, "Stupefy. Obliviate."

* * *

><p>"Okay, Potter," I said, "if you Excremento this poor old bag..."<p>

"I won't!"

"It's _Stupefy_, remember, then we sponge her. Got it?"

"Yes; damn it!"

We stood in front of Mrs Wilcox's home in Tynemouth. It was rather pleasant and pretty here, I had to admit, as we were just close enough to the coast to hear the waves crash and recede. I should like a coastal property one day, I think. Maybe a castle upon a cliff, that sort of thing. Beautiful but terrifying all at once.

We rang the bell, a faithful interpretation of _White Cliffs of Dover_, and we waited. A minute passed―nothing. We rang it again. Nothing.

"The lights are on," I said. "She's got to be in there."

We saw the Venetian blinds suddenly crack open and, just as soon, close.

"We're just carolers!" Potter called. "What's your favourite Christmas tune? _Good king Wenceslaus went out..._"

"Great, Potter," I shouted over his squalling; "now she's likely to call the police."

"Shut up!"

Then we waited some more, and, when it was clear that Mrs Wilcox was certainly not answering any unsolicited calls, I said, "Just magick it open."

He pointed the wand at the knob and said, "Alohamora." The metal springs noisily unlatched themselves, and, a moment later, the knob loosened and unlocked. I opened the door, and, peering in, the house seemed empty; or, more precisely, Mrs Wilcox had hidden herself and was likely cowering in elderly terror.

I moved forward, stepping through the threshold―or rather, _not_ stepping through the threshold. I couldn't enter. It was as though an invisible barrier stood in my path.

"Go in, Malfoy."

"I can't."

"What to do you mean you can't?" He pushed me out of the way and sprang forward quickly―and was rebounded as fast he'd come. "What the hell?"

We inspected the door-frame. Standard woodwork, paint chipped, nothing out of the ordinary. Except, when I glanced down, there seemed to be some sort of a red powder spread across the threshold. I leant down, and, as I brought my hand to it, red sparks flew out wildly and sizzled the tips of my fingers. "Fuck!"

"Is it magic?"

"No, Potter, it's Chinese sparklers. Of course it's magic!"

"She's a witch, then?"

I sucked on my fingers. "Most likely, Potter. Yes."

"What is it, do you think?" Potter leant down himself and gave it a whiff. "Smells like―" His face contorted. "Urine."

I spit out my fingers. "What! It's powder, Potter. It can't be urine." And then I gave it sniff myself, and ye gods! "It _is_ urine." Spitting in public is a most vulgar and crude habit, but certain circumstances demand it. "Or it smells of it anyway."

From inside the house, a weak and terrified voice called out, "Go away!"

I called back. "Do you know your front door smells of―"

Potter slugged me in the arm. "Mrs Wilcox? Can you come out? We'd just like to ask you a few questions. About some old neighbours of yours. There was a stabbing. Do you remember?"

"Go away! You mean to do me harm!"

"No!" Potter said. "Honest, we don't!"

"If your intentions were peaceful, you'd be able to enter the door. But you can't! You mean to do me harm!"

I turned to Potter. "The sponge. Get rid of it."

"Why?"

"Because we were going to shove it down her throat, weren't we?"

"Oh, right," he said, and he tossed it into the bushes.

"Okay," I told him, "so we're going to go in there and _just_ ask her some questions, right?"

"Right."

I took a deep breath, lifted my leg toward the door and―stepped through! Golly, I really ought to learn this spell. It would be most useful, indeed. I only wondered why I'd never heard of it before.

Potter stepped through as well, and he said, "We're in now, Mrs Wilcox. There, you see. We're not baddies. You can come out."

A withered old bat, with frizzled gray hair and a moth-eaten dimity pegnoir, peered out from behind the sofa. She hoisted herself up with great struggle and, very hesitantly, crept out. She was barefoot and unstable, and I couldn't tell if she quivered in fright or if she was just old and trembly.

"Hi," Potter said slowly. "I'm Harry, and this is―"

She gasped and clutched her mouth. "Leroy!" Her eyes were wide and petrified; and she keeled over instantly―a heavy lump upon the carpet.

"Is she dead?" I asked; and Potter shrugged.

* * *

><p><strong>NOTES<strong>

For those nerdier sort out there, the spell _Excremento_ is my own transliteration of _Exomento_, a spell of the same nature. _Excremento_, in my opinion, is clearer, more understandable, and much more delightfully vulgar.

Lastly, my dear readers, **REVIEW**!


	6. 6 Harry Potter

**Draco Malfoy, Muggle**

**by Jacob Oliver**

**Chapter 6. Harry Potter.**

* * *

><p>As though it weren't bad enough I was performing CPR on a woman whose dentures kept slipping out their mouth and into mine, Malfoy had to compound matters by standing over me, laughing hysterically, and chanting, "Potter's got an eighty-year-old girlfriend!"<p>

"She's not eighty," said a voice from behind us, and we spun round to see an equally geriatric woman hobbling down the steps in her bathrobe and nightcap. "She's eighty-four. Everything she tells you otherwise is a lie. ― Doris! Doris! Stop lounging and make us our tea! ― She's always trying to skip out on making our tea. I'm Minnie, the way. Her sister. Charmed, I'm sure." She shoved me out of the way, and I tumbled sideways. She may have been old, but she had a powerful arm. "Doris! Get up! I know you're faking!"

Doris made no reply, and Minnie, heaving a put-upon sigh, turned back to us and said, "Sorry about this, lads. She's been a bit shaken since the incident last month. Maybe you read about it in the paper. Murder, two doors down. Horrible thing. Doris saw it all and had a bit of a stroke in reaction; and I had to come and take care of her. She's gotten so used to me waiting on her hand-and-foot that she can't be bothered put the kettle on. ― Doris Eileen Wilcox, stop your faking and get up now!"

"It wasn't a stroke!" Doris said. "It was just a post-traumatic attack."

"So you are up, Doris." Minnie leant down with a crack of her back, and she helped Doris up;―or something like that. They both sort of tremblingly took hold of one another, and Doris clawed her way up as Minnie's spine slipped a disc or two.

"Should we help them?" I whispered to Malfoy.

"No, but shall we place bets on who falls and breaks their tibia first?"

I elbowed Malfoy in the ribs.

"Of course you were faking," Minnie said after she'd finally gotten Doris onto her feet. They dusted themselves off and attempted to catch their breaths. Well, if catching one's breath means getting out the oxygen tank and taking turns with the nozzle. After a deep inhale, Minnie said, "You saw two young men and thought, 'Here's my chance to get mouth-to-mouth.' I'd have preferred the blonde one, myself, but I suppose speccy-face isn't hideous."

"Hey!" I said. Was 'not hideous' the best I could hope to be? I looked at Malfoy, and he seemed rather pleased, if I'm honest, as he adjusted a non-existent cravat. "Oh, come off it, Malfoy," I whispered. "She's a hundred; you can't possibly be flattered."

"You poor, four-eyed fool," Minnie said to me, shaking her head. "Suckered in by an ancient tart." She smacked Doris on the arm. "Poor boy's only young. That was likely his first kiss, and you've ruined it! You've scarred him, Doris; he's likely never to go near a woman again." She turned back to me but tilted her head toward her companion. "Doris here has turned more lads to cock than the Boy Scouts."

I knew I was blushing. I could feel my cheeks burning in embarrassment. "I'm not―. And it wasn't my first kiss. Golly, I'm not―. I don't like co―what you said."

Malfoy was bent over in hysterics, and I really wanted to slug him. "She's right, though, isn't she?" he said between snorts. "Your first kiss was with Miss Rheumatoid Arthritis over there!"

"It wasn't my first kiss! I kissed Cho Chang in fifth year!"

"Ching Chong?" Minnie repeated curiously. "Is she the one that runs the takeaway down at the bottom? The exotic lass with the tiny tits? Doris, didn't I say she sold more than Prawn in Szechuan Sauce?"

Now Malfoy was having to support himself on the wall and hold his stomach. "Stop! Stop! Haha! Ow! It hurts!"

"It's not funny, Malfoy."

"I really did faint," Doris continued now, with insistence. "Minnie, he's―" She pointed at Malfoy, and her eyes grew wide yet again. "That's the boy I told you about. That's Leroy Bucket. He's back from the dead!"

Minnie placed a hand on her hip and looked at Doris rather skeptically. "Doris, have you been taking your tablets with vodka again?"

"No!" Doris insisted. "I mean, yes. But that doesn't change the fact that Leroy Bucket is standing in front of us right now."

"You can't keep doing that, Doris."

"It says I can take it with juice."

"A Bloody Mary isn't juice."

"It's got juice in it."

Minnie shook her head and took another deep inhale of pressurised O2. "Okay, Doris, if that's Leroy, then who's the one with the stupid glasses?"

I adjusted them self-consciously and wished Malfoy would stop laughing at me.

"Kid," she said to me, "you do realise those glasses have been out of style since our Grandad was in knee-high breeches?"

Malfoy nudged me. "Their _grandad_, Potter. That's like the Victorian Era! You're a hundred years out of fashion. That's got to be some kind of record."

I want that sponge back. I want to shove it right down Minnie's wrinkled old esophageal tract.

"I don't know who he is," Doris said, "but he's one heck of a kisser. He has the saving touch, does that boy." She winked at me and licked her dentures.

My mouth hung open in horror, and, seeing Doris stare at it hungrily, I clasped it shut again. After recollecting myself, I shouted, "You were awake the whole time!"

"I told you she was!" Minnie said, with a triumphant nod. "Doris is always doing that." She paused, and after a contemplative moment, said, "Two can play at that game. Hey, Blondie, if I take a tumble, will you shove your hand down my blouse?"

I really expected Malfoy to recoil or vomit on the spot, but he simply snorted and said, "You best keep that robe on tight, Min;―at your age, it's the only thing holding you together."

She turned to me and pointed a thumb at Malfoy. "He's a right charmer, your friend, isn't he?"

"Right!" I said with intention. "That's it. Can we focus? Doris, that isn't Leroy."

"Course he is! Aren't you, Leroy?"

Malfoy smiled at her rather diplomatically and said, "How about we have that tea, Doris? We'll exchange stories and get this whole thing sorted, what?"

* * *

><p>"So you're not Leroy Bucket?" Doris said as she blew on her tea.<p>

"I'm not," said Malfoy. "There's something very strange going on. My friends and family can't remember who I am, and you seem to remember me as someone I'm not. That's why we came here. We think you might be able to help us understand."

"Well, it's got to be a spell, then, doesn't it?" she replied without a second thought.

I took a sip of my tea and nearly hacked it out. My God! I thought old people like their tea weak. "What's in here?"

Minnie lifted the pot and sniffed at it. "Doris, have you been spiking the tea with Angostura bitters again?"

I set my beaker down exasperatedly and, attempting to steer us back to the topic at hand, said, "So, you're both witches then?"

"Oh, yes," Doris said with much enthusiasm, and I thought this was an upturn at least. Perhaps now we could get some real clues as to what had actually taken place the night of the murder.

Minnie lit up a black ladies' cigarette and, while coughing out her trachea and bronchial tree onto the lino, said, "Well, we're _new_ witches, really."

Doris nodded. "That we are, Minnie. New witches."

Malfoy spit his tea out onto my face and, speaking aloud what I didn't dare say out of kindness, said, "_New_ witches? Sorry, Minnie, but the newest thing about you is that metal hip you've just had installed."

"I'm sure what he means to say," I added, wringing out my hair and glaring daggers at Malfoy, "is that surely you've been witches all your life."

"Oh no!" Doris said. "We've only been witches maybe a few months now."

"Didn't you go to Hogwarts?" I asked.

"What did you call me?" Minnie demanded, waggling her cigarette in front of my nose and spilling ash in my mouth. "I'll have you know, you little shite, I weigh eight stone!"

Doris guffawed. "He's got glasses, Minnie; he's not blind!"

"That's not what I meant," I said, coughing and trying to fan away the smoke. "Hogwarts is a school in Scotland."

"Oh!" Minnie said, comprehending. "Then, yeah, we did go. Didn't we, Doris?"

I looked over at Doris who had pulled a flask out of her brassier and proceeded to pour the entirety of its contents into her tea. "Well, it wasn't Hogwarts exactly―whatever that means―," she said, taking a large swig, "and it wasn't Scotland either. But it was a school, and we did wear Tam o' Shanters, so..."

I turned to Malfoy and looked at him helplessly. "It's your go, Malfoy. I've got nothing."

Malfoy appeared not to know how to respond either, but he soldiered on anyway and asked, "But your school―it taught witchcraft?"

"Not really, no," Minnie said after a long drag. "But there were a lot witches, weren't there, Doris?"

"It wasn't a magic school, but it had witches?" Malfoy asked, bewildered surely as I was.

"Oh, yeah. Doris, do you remember Sister Genevieve? She used to love thrashing us with that radio aerial. Right wicked witch, that one."

I was holding my face in my hands at this point and was really very close to telling Malfoy to enjoy his life as a Muggle. "Ladies, ladies, please," I said finally, my last ditch attempt to make sense of the madness around me. "Could you explain what you mean by being 'new' witches?"

"Well," Doris said, "it's simple really. We never knew about witchcraft till recently. It's Mrs Bucket who's taught me what I know. I taught Minnie."

Now we were getting somewhere. "Mrs Bucket?" I asked. "She was a witch, too?"

"'Course she was," Doris said. "Real powerful."

"Can you tell us what happened that night?" I pressed on. "Your story seems to be different from what was in the papers."

"The papers lied!" she said, shaking in a sudden fury that caused her teeth and gums to fall directly into her drink. Replacing them, she said slowly and gravely, "It was a tall man, but I couldn't see his face. He had a hood on. The Buckets had just come from seeing _Jesus __Christ __Superstar_ in the Whitley Bay Playhouse and..."

Malfoy nudged me hard, and it took a moment for me to realise I had broken into a chorus of _Gethsemane_ and subsequently heard nothing more of Doris's eyewitness account. "Sorry," I said.

"As I was saying," Doris continued, pulling the cotton balls out of her ears, "the man came up from behind a hedge, pulled out a stick, and there was flash of green light. Mr and Mrs Bucket dropped down, unconscious. Leroy, the poor lad, ran for it."

"Green light?" I said. "It couldn't be―"

Malfoy looked at me gravely. "The Killing Curse."

"But I thought they were stabbed."

"They were," Doris continued. "He took out a knife and stabbed them after. Then he chased Leroy down the road, and the boy was screaming and wailing. 'Help!' he shouted. 'He's murdered my parents!' Then Humphrey Turnblad, brave man from Number 4, came out and tried to help, but the killer pointed his stick again, and Humphrey went straight down. _Slam_. And when he caught Leroy―" (Doris's speech and pace started to become frantic) "―he shoved the poor lad onto his knees, took out the blade again; and now Leroy's pleading and begging, and this horrible monster―this bastard―"

Doris stopped altogether. Her hands and fingers were quivering more tremulously than before, and her face seemed to go from red to white in a matter of a few short seconds. She pulled out yet another flask from her brassier, and drained it without once coming up for air.

When she had finally opened her mouth to speak again, her words were almost too silent to hear. "He slit his throat. Slit it wide open. And then―and then he took out a glass jar, and collected the blood."

"That's enough for tonight, lads," Minnie said suddenly, as she tossed her cigarette in the sink. "Doris needs her rest. We can finish this tomorrow. Come on, Doris."

* * *

><p>I will say this for the Dursleys―at least they have central heating. The radiator in the Wilcox's spare room was wonked out, and, Malfoy having taken the bed, the pillows, and the duvet all for himself (because "a queen is already terribly cramped for one as it is"), I was left shivering on the Morris chair, wondering what I had done to deserve this. Still, he did deign to grant me one pillow and the unlimited use of the bed cover, so what cause had I to complain?<p>

"Potter, will you shut up!"

"Huh? I'm not making any noise."

"Then what's that God-awful clicking!"

"My _teeth_, you mean? The chattering of my teeth? It happens, Malfoy, when one is in the throes of freezing to death!"

He was silent a moment, then, in a petulant whine―"Can't you make it stop?"

"Oh sure, Malfoy. Once my blood freezes and my eyes roll to the back my head, I'm sure they'll stop chattering."

A frustrated sigh blew forth from his nostrils. Well, at least the upside to hypothermia was that it got on Malfoy's nerves. I smiled a toothy, chattering smile.

He stuck his fingers in his ears and scowled. "Oh, for fuck's sake, come on then!"

"What?" Not wholly certain of his meaning, I simply stared back at him―until he shifted, albeit ill-humouredly, to one side of the bed.

I gaped. I mean, don't get me wrong, I wanted to sleep on the bed, but this meant lying beside Malfoy. The thought was―worrying.

"Before I change my mind, Potter!" he said, with his arms folded.

"Right, yes," I said, unsure of what else to contribute. I pushed off the bed-cover and stood up, taking the pillow with me. I could sense him watching as I climbed into bed and lay down. Feeling terribly exposed, I pulled the duvet up to my neck and wrapped it tightly around me.

"Stay on your side, Potter."

"Of course!" I said almost too emphatically; and I couldn't understand why I felt so nervous.

I suppose, having come from the chill, the bed ought to have been cause for much comfort and ease; and yet, with the warmth of Malfoy's body at my side and the soft and steady hum of his breath, I knew it would be a long while yet till I got to sleep.

* * *

><p>The angry squalls of seagulls startled me awake. It was mid-morning, and all about my body I felt terribly sore and tender, the cause of which became aggravatingly apparent the moment I opened my eyes.<p>

I was on the floor beside the bed, sprawled against the sideboard, with the front of my face pressed upon the wood beneath me. Standing up and rubbing my aches, I perceived Malfoy lying hushedly under the duvet amidst a sea of pillows and satin. He was smiling very contentedly, so I took a pillow and beat it from his face.

"Whoa! What! Shit! Potter! What are you doing! Stop it!"

After a moment, I relented with the thrashing, but I kept a glower upon my countenance for good measure. "Why was I on the floor, Malfoy?"

"I don't bloody well know, do I? You must have fallen."

"All the years I've slept on a bed, I've never fallen. It can be no coincidence that the first time I take a tumble is also the first time I sleep beside you, Malfoy."

"Oh, come on, Potter. You don't think I pushed you, do you?"

"Admit it, Malfoy!"

"No. I did no such thing, and thereby shall not admit to it!"

"Right." I picked up the pillow once again and thrashed him within an inch of his life. "Admit it, Malfoy!"

"Potter! Will you st―! For fuck's sake!" Wide-eyed and panting, he grabbed the pillow away from me and cried, "Okay, fine, Potter! If it'll get you to stop, then―_yes_. Okay? Yes, I pushed you off."

"_Bastard!_" I grabbed another pillow and resumed assault.

"Hey! Ow!" He grabbed the second pillow from me. "Christ almighty, Potter! I didn't mean to."

"Oh, sure!"

"You tossed and turned all bloody night and kept me from getting a decent sleep. I nudged you and tried to shake you, but you were dead to world. Eventually, I got fed up and gave you a jolly kick in the rump. I guess I don't know my own strength. I didn't mean for you to fall off."

"Well, you could have helped me up."

"And miss the opportunity to get a few final winks? No way, Potter."

I massaged my backside. It hurt.

* * *

><p>We had a bowl of Muesli mix for breakfast, which I think speaks for itself.<p>

After a polite back-and-forth regarding the beauty of the North Sea, as well as speculations on the weather, and Doris's enthusiastic advocacy of dried oats and their gastro-enterological benefit, I once more resurfaced last night's discourse.

"Can you tell us anything more about the Buckets?"

Doris gummed a dried banana slice. "Well, Mrs Bucket―Sammie-Joe, she's called―is an American. Her son, too. The husband's British, though. Theodore. He's a professor at Northumbria and studies something-or-other. What is it, Minnie? Andromology?"

"Anthropology, Doris. From what the neighbours have told me, he went to the States on a field-study, and that's where he met Sammie-Joe."

Malfoy hesitantly lifted a spoonful of milky oats up to his nose and sniffed at it. He dropped it back into the bowl. "So, where does the witchcraft come in?"

"She opened up a little psychic service to the public," Doris replied. "She had a sign and everything. 'Dr Sammie-Joe, Conjurer'. Most of the neighbours thought she was mad, but I didn't. I knew she was the real thing. I used to go over and get my fortune told. I even bought a few knick-knacks."

"Do you know where her wand is now?" I asked.

"Her what?"

"Wand. Didn't she have a wand?"

"No. She had a book, though. And potions."

"Can we see them?"

"Sure," Doris said, standing up unsuccessfully.

Minnie shook her head in apparent frustration and said, "Oh, I'll get the book, then."

Doris continued on―"After she died―and you can't tell anybody―but Minnie and I sort of liberated the book. We knew where they kept their spare key, you see. We were going to take the herb jars and such, but it was too much to carry."

At this time, Minnie returned and indeed presented us with _Dr __Sammie-Joe's __Most __Secret __Book __of __Spells_.

Well, it wasn't a book, really―more of a ring-bound journal. It was all handwritten by the "doctor", and there was no real order to it. Simply, there were page after page of spells, the importance, significance, and potency of which were really rather dubious, if you ask me. I didn't get much of a chance to read it, however, for soon Malfoy had snatched it from me and perused it with seemingly increasing derision.

"Spell Number Fourteen," Malfoy read aloud, mockingly, "Insure Your Divorce Settlement is Favourable. That can't be a real spell!" He shook his head in incredulity but pressed on. "Spell Number Twenty-Five. How to Make a Man―" (a pause) "―_Impotent_? Oh come on! Aren't there any useful spells in this book?"

At Malfoy's question, it occurred to me to ask about the red dust at the threshold. When I did, however, yesterday's fear appeared to rise in Doris again, but, slowly, she managed to explain how the murderer had tried to enter the house.

"He tried to get in. I think he went to all the neighbour's houses. But he couldn't come into mine. I'd already consulted Sammie-Joe about protection spells, so, in a hurry, I weed across the doorway and sprinkled on some brick-dust. I did it on all the possible ways in."

Malfoy gave a little shudder, and I found it very difficult to erase the image of Doris angling herself just right to aim at the windowsill.

I had to physically jerk my myself from the ghoulish reverie; and I asked, "But he didn't kill anybody else?"

"I don't think so."

"Then what was the purpose of breaking into the houses?"

"I don't know. All I do know is that I'm the only one who remembers what really happened."

"Memory-altering spells," Malfoy said with a sigh, seeming quite weary of them by now.

I was going to make a reply in the affirmative, when I was sidetracked by the sound of a large bang and thud in the living room. If it weren't that both Minnie and Doris were in plain sight, I'd have thought one of them had gone down for sure.

"What was that?" Minnie said.

"Shall we have a look?" I offered.

"No need," said a deep, low voice from behind us.

We spun around to meet the gaze of the same two dark-suited gentlemen who had apprehended Malfoy at the Burrow. Their wands were at the ready, pointed directly at our noses.

"You didn't seal off the fireplace," said the first one, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a thick, veiny neck. "We Flooed in."

"How did you know we were here?" I asked, though I was certain I already knew the answer.

"Your little buck-toothed girlfriend told us what you were up to," said the other, a stout, sweaty man with an uneven tash. "She wanted us to stop you before you broke the law. ― Ladies, have either of these young wizards used any spells against you?"

"Of course not!" Minnie said, waggling a serrated kitchen knife at him. "Now, go on. Get out out before I slash open your scrotum!"

"We'll deal with you later," said the tall one, and, descending upon Malfoy and me, informed us―"You two first." He aimed his wand at Malfoy and said, "Obliviate," and a burst of white light shone through and pierced Malfoy's head. In a few moments, he was slumped over, unconscious.

I knew I was up next, but, unlike Malfoy, I would not be suffering it without a fight. I'd tussled through an Imperio and came out victorious, so an Obliviate ought to be cookies.

I heard the word come out of the man's mouth and felt the warm sensation of the spell penetrating my mind. It was a lulling, sleepy feeling, compelling my thoughts to rest and ultimately disappear. I could feel my eyelids growing heavy and my mind drifting, and I had to struggle very hard in order to stay alert. The trick to surmounting an Obliviate is to focus on a very vivid, sensorial memory, one which is, indeed, _unforgettable_. I had to think as quickly as possible, before the drowsiness became too overwhelming.

And I knew then what I had to recall. This particular memory was simply too profoundly horrifying to forget. I took a deep, quivering breath and allowed the thoughts to pour forth and flood my mind's eye...

His face was in front of me, leaning forward to retrieve the knife. I'd never been this close to Malfoy before, and I didn't realise how intimidating he could actually be. _Come __on __Potter, __you've __faced __the __Dark __Lord __and __didn't __bat __an __eyelash. __Why __get __all __flustered __now?_ It didn't make any sense.

I looked at him, as his parted lips were coming in toward me. I could feel the moistness of his breath, which smelled of tomato and spice and pepperoni. There was a smudge of sauce right above his upper lip, and I―

_I __don't __want __to __think __about. __I __can't! _But the Obliviate was getting stronger, the urge to close my eyes and close my mind began to overtake me. _Keep __remembering, __Harry, __damn __it. __Even __it __kills __you!_

The sauce on Malfoy's face. The bright red staining his pale, porcelain skin, resting idly above the curve of his lip. I felt―

_You've __got __to __keep __thinking, __Harry. __Don't __stop._

I felt a sudden and inexplicable temptation to lick it off him.

It was a thought so mortifying that I wanted to run off screaming. There were no two ways about it;―I had lost my mind.

Before I could think any further on the matter, however, I perceived his face moving in closer, his lips opening wide to receive the knife. I could see the wetness of his mouth, his tongue wriggling inside, his teeth glistening in the light. My heart was pounding in my throat, and my chest heaved with every erratic inhalation. My mind was a blur, and without a second thought more, damning all consequence, I brought my face all the way in and touched our lips together for one very brief, delirious second.

I felt my knees turn instantly to gelatin, as I wobbled and shook and nearly keeled over. Trying but failing to regain balance, I tottered some more and ended up smashing my forehead against his and tumbling backward in a fit. All this with a metal blade between us. Fuck me.

I looked back at him, praying to whatever Supreme Deity there might be that Malfoy wouldn't deride and humiliate me―or simply use the knife to slit my throat. But he didn't say anything. Maybe because he now had the knife in his mouth; but, even so, I couldn't see any real outrage in his demeanour. Perhaps he thought it was an accident. Yes. Please let him have thought it was an accident!

"I don't think it's working," I heard a voice echo in the back of my mind; and it was then that once more I realised where I was. I was in Doris and Minnie's kitchen being Obliviated. Yes. And I was _beating_ it. The grogginess was now insubstantial; my vision refocused itself; and I found myself almost fully alert, facing the two men who had come to capture us.

With celerity, I whipped out my own wand―well, Hermione's really (_bitch_)―, and I shouted, "Petrificus!" Instantly, the tall man went rigid, and he fell over backward with a loud thud. His stout companion looked at me in great surprise and alarm, but, before he had the opportunity to react, I had petrified him as well; and they were both down for the count.

My attention then reverted back to Malfoy. He was still slumped and inert, and in a panic I grabbed either side of his shoulders and shook him forcefully.

"Wake up, Malfoy! Are you okay? Malfoy!"

The stupidity of my action soon occurred to me, however, and I realised that a simple Enervate would be much more effective. I cast the spell, and, after a short moment, he blinkingly came to.

"Malfoy," I said. "The men―they Obliviated you. Do you remember anything?"

"Who am I? What am I? Where am I?" And it wasn't until he had placed the back of his wrist against his forehead that I realised he was just being a complete twat.

"You complete twat!" I said. "I thought they'd done you in for sure. How did you fight it off?"

"It must be this curse," Malfoy said. "I seem to be immune to some spells."

"Right," Minnie said suddenly; and both Malfoy and I seemed to have only just remembered that she and her sister were there. She was leant over Doris, who was face down in her bowl of Muesli; and, checking her for a pulse, Minnie said, "You best call an ambulance, lads. I think she's had a bit of a fright."

* * *

><p>As we waited for Doris in the stark, white Emergency Room, I had a brief opportunity to collect my thoughts. I glanced over at Malfoy, who was quietly sipping coffee from a polystyrene cup, and making disgusted faces at the various sick patients and burn victims that came in.<p>

A particularly grotesque child, whom, I had overheard, had only just been pulled out of a burning orphanage, was wheeled in past us. Malfoy recoiled at once and pursed his lips at the sight.

His lips. Oh God.

I buried my face in my hands and groaned. _Well, __you've __finally __cracked, __Harry, __old __boy._

Ron will kill me.

* * *

><p><strong>NOTES<strong>

The quote _"Who am I? What am I? Where am I?"_ is from Season 1, Episode 16 of _I __Love __Lucy_. So don't sue. Just **REVIEW**!

Lastly, check out the new ILLUSTRATIONS for this chapter at―  
><strong><strong>jakeyoliver (dot) livejournal (dot) com<strong>**

Till next time!


	7. 7 Draco Malfoy

**Draco Malfoy, Muggle**

**by Jacob Oliver**

**Chapter 7. Draco Malfoy.**

* * *

><p>Surprisingly, one cannot "disinfect" a person by spraying Dettol antibacterial in their face. In fact, it's really rather unfavourable, considering how the little girl retched the contents of her stomach onto the hospital tile.<p>

If you ask me, it's really some very misleading product information. There I was in the mens' lavatory, when I spotted a canister that claimed to disinfect "99.9% of germs." Extraordinary, I know! I thought, 'Well, now we're cooking with gas;―I've just solved half these people's problems.' So, you see, I'm a good person, really. I went out, spray bottle in hand, ready to deliver God's healing gift to that little brat who had sneezed all over my blazer.

The upshot being I got a thump in the eye by the girl's incredibly large and intimidating Geordie father and was subsequently escorted out of the hospital by a hulking orderly, whose bedside manner left much to be desired. So here Potter and I were, walking back to Tynemouth, or rather, making a jog of it as it had begun to drizzle. Minnie, on the other hand, had to stay behind with Doris, who had gotten into a bit of hot water herself, having tried to seduce a young Greek intern called Dr Papadopoulos. Minnie was good enough to provide us the key to the house and told us we were welcome to stay as long as we like.

As we ambled on, having gotten a significant distance from the General Hospital, I realised Potter hadn't yet uttered a word,―indeed, not even a chastisement for the Dettol incident, of which I was certain he would be quick to disapprove. Instead, he looked rather lost in thought, his head in the clouds or what have you; and every now and again he'd glance at me when he supposed I didn't notice, as though the concept of periphery was beyond his apprehension.

"Are you going to keep staring at me, Potter, or are you going to do something about it?"

Potter somehow managed to trip upon his own feet. Rather agitatedly, he said, "What? What do you mean, Malfoy?"

"My eye, Potter. I know you're staring at it. Are you going to heal it or not? It's bruised, hasn't it? It hurts most dreadfully, and yet you've afforded it none of the sympathy or commiseration it rightfully deserves. People are known to die from the shock of pain, you know, and I fear I'm only a hair's breath from a similar fate."

"Oh!" he said and, after appearing to relax, added, "Don't be such a baby, Malfoy. You're not going to die."

"Stop flapping your gums, Potter, and get healing!"

A wave of the wand and the pain subsided. I touched my eye, making sure everything was in order; and, indeed after positive verification, I nodded my approval at Potter.

We resumed our trek back to Tynemouth, but, the rain having become more forceful, we ducked beneath the overhang of a corner shop, waiting for the weather to calm. We were quickly joined by two rather gruesome youths with striped shirts and turned-up collars, each proceeding to open and imbibe a can of, quote, "Crunk Juice".

They spoke, for the most part, unintelligibly, though every so often one picked up on the words _fuck_, _cunt_, and _I fucked that fat cunt_. Clearly, they were spoilt for choice in topics of conversation. Still, they weren't terribly savage. The one nearest to me even had the civility to offer a sip of his juice. I declined, of course, as I wasn't quite sure what kind of a fruit a crunk was.

They left shortly after, not minding the downpour and jollily chanting something derogatory about Sunderland. I turned to Potter, about to ask if we ought also to recommence our walk, but, once again, I found him to be staring at me. He flushed and looked away instantly, shifting all his attention to his hands. He bit at his cuticles.

"Don't do that," I said sharply.

"Sorry?"

"Do stop chewing your fingers. It's vulgar and most unseemly."

"Oh." He wiped his hand on his jeans.

"Potter, what on earth is the matter with you?"

"I stopped, didn't I?"

"Not that. I mean, you've been acting terribly peculiar since those men from Ministry attacked us. Did they Confundus you or something?"

He resumed assault on his cuticles and remained silent for several moments. Then―"What did you think of Sam and Jerry?"

Where had this come from? "Sam and Jerry? Potter, if this is your way of telling me you're giving up―"

"No! I―"

"Because I'm not going back to foster care. You can't make me!"

"That's not what I meant. I just wanted to know what you thought about them. I mean―" A pause. "Do you think they were happy?"

"Who?"

"Sam and Jerry. They lived normal lives, didn't they?"

"Sure, if getting buggered up the colon is your idea of normal." I smirked at Potter, but his eyebrows were furrowed, and his face was scrunched up in apparent consternation. "Why?" I said. "What's brought this on, anyway?"

"I―I worry about..." He paused again, this time for a much longer while, until―"That is, I worry for Charlie's sake. I don't know how Mr and Mrs Weasley will take it."

"Is that what this is all about? Come on, Potter; the Weasleys aren't foreign to shameful lifestyle choices. Look at the state of them. Poor and Muggle-loving. A queer in the family is just another drop in the bucket."

Seemed he'd latched onto one word: "Shameful? You―you think it's shameful?" There was a strange sort of desperation in his eyes and in the tone of his voice, as though he were begging me to retract what I had said. He must care a great deal for Charlie to be so worried for him. It was pitiful, really.

"Surely it doesn't matter what I think, Potter."

But he kept looking on at me, clearly not satisfied with my answer. So I told him. "Potter, we weren't laughing at those magazines because we thought they were _respectable_, were we? We laughed at the scandal of it all. We laughed at what can only be described as Charlie's undeniable disrepute."

Potter's eyes narrowed and, in a second, he had stomped away and into the deluge, clearly in an outraged huff.

I jogged after him, putting up my hood and wiping the rain from my face. "Potter!" I called.

"Fuck you, Malfoy!" he said, quickening his pace. "When we get back to Tynemouth, I'm taking my broom and fucking off home."

"You can't! What'll I do?"

Without further response, he raced onward, making sure to keep far ahead of me.

"Potter! You're the only one who knows who I am!"

Really, it was most perplexing, considering he ought now―after six or so years of being my sworn enemy―to take our disagreements in his stride. Granted, I had scorned his friend, but hadn't I always spoken frankly about the Weasleys? It could be no surprise to him now.

I followed along behind him. Perhaps the rain would cool him down.

* * *

><p>"You can't just leave me here all by myself!"<p>

"Call Child Services. They'll take you back to London."

"But we've only just started finding about Leroy and everything that's happened. I've got to stay. I've got to keep digging."

"Then do, Malfoy. Nobody's stopping you."

We had finally reached Tynemouth and stood arguing in front of the house. The weather had only gotten worse, and Potter most definitely had _not_ cooled down.

"You're not really leaving, Potter."

"Watch me, Malfoy."

"You'll be back."

My responses were starting to become paltry at best, but what else could be said, save begging him to stay? The idea was revolting. A Malfoy must never be the desperate party, however dire the circumstance. His dignity and reputation must come before all else.

But, for Christ's sake, if I were to lose Potter, I should also lose my only connection to the Wizarding World. And what use is dignity when one is as insignificant and pathetic as a _Muggle_.

"You're fooling yourself, Malfoy, if you honestly think I'll come back. Why should I? For more frenching sessions with Doris, perhaps? For more splashing about in winter storms? Not on your life, Malfoy."

"I hate you, Potter!"

"So? You've always hated me. Why should I care now?"

There he had me. It's not as though we'd become friends or anything; and one cannot emotionally blackmail an enemy. I faltered, and he took the opportunity to mount his broomstick.

"What did I say, Potter? You're not generally this pissy, and I can't imagine I said anything out of the ordinary. Made an insult here and there, sure, but you're acting as though I slew your firstborn."

"Nothing. You didn't say anything. I'm just tired. I can't be around this madness anymore. I can't be around _you_ anymore."

"Oh, come on, Potter! I know we're arch-enemies and all, which certainly puts a strain on this relationship, but come on―we're not doing so bad, are we? We've not yet tried to kill each other, right? That's a tally in our favour, surely. Okay, yes, there was that tiny incident where we'd tried to drown each other in the lake, but we didn't succeed, did we? And that's the important bit."

_Well, that certainly was a convincing argument, Draco. _Was that really the best I could do? If I were to be perfectly honest with myself, I suppose it _was_. Truly, there was no conceivable reason for Potter to stay―or to even have gone this far with me.

"Goodbye, Malfoy," he said finally.

But he didn't go.

He simply stood there looking at me, his eyes wide, his expression strange. And then I realised what I had done. My hand was wrapped around his wrist, gripping it tightly and almost crushing it between my fingers. At the sight, I jolted, releasing him instantly. A slowly fading handprint stained his skin, and we both stared until it had disappeared altogether.

There was whip of wind and a splash of water, and, a minute later, Potter was but a rainy speck in the horizon.

* * *

><p>I waited rather nervously for Minnie to return home. The Floo portal was still open in the fireplace, and, seeing as now the Ministry had an idea of where I was, it was only a matter of time when they'd send their goons after me again. And, without Potter, I was helpless.<p>

Damn him! How dare he make me feel helpless? I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.

The door clicked open, and, for the tiniest fraction of a second, I thought it might have been Potter.

"Hiya, Leroy," Minnie said, taking off her coat, and tossing it onto the sofa. "Sorry;―'Draco' was it? Where's speccy four-eyes?"

"Gone," I said and, not wishing to carry out the subject, expressed my concern about the fireplace in its stead.

"Oh," she said. "Doris usually takes care of all that. Shall we have a look at the spellbook?"

So we had said look, and, Minnie fetching the jar of brick-dust, we went over to the fireplace to perform the spell.

"My back's no good," Minnie said, and I hadn't a blithering clue what she meant, until I remembered that first horrifying step of the protection spell.

"You want _me_ to piss in your fireplace?" I said, very scandalised, indeed.

"It's easier for you lads. You just whip it out and―" (here she began to make the sound of it, as though an auditory clue was necessary).

"I can't, Min," I cut in. "Even if I wanted to, I couldn't."

"I've got just the trick," she said. "Japanese tea. The green stuff. Tastes like minge, but it flushes out the system, front and back."

"That's not what I meant! For God's sake, Min! I mean, I'm a―" I dreaded to say it. "I'm a Muggle."

"A what, dear?"

Christ, they really were new at being witches. I wondered how they'd never found out growing up. You'd think their powers would have manifested themselves in some form or another.

"A Muggle," I repeated. "I can't do magic."

"You're pissing, Draco, not sawing a lady in half."

"You don't understand," I said. "I don't have any magic at all."

"Well, neither do Doris and I. That's what the spells are for."

I looked at her, trying to comprehend what precisely she had said. Neither she nor Doris have magic, but they use spells to perform magic anyhow. And somehow they worked.

"Minnie, are you telling me that you're both Muggles―sorry, that you weren't born witches?"

"Us born witches? We're from South Shields, love. God rest her soul, but if my mother had seen me flying around on a broomstick, she'd have smacked me in the gob and told me to get sweeping."

I ignored her otherwise charming anecdote of northern life and pressed on. "You're saying that somehow the spells themselves, the ingredients―they have magic all of their own?"

"I don't know how it works. And I doubt Doris does, either. You just follow the instructions and 'hocus pocus'."

"Just follow the instructions and 'hocus pocus'," I repeated, still digesting this new-found information. So all these years, all these centuries, Muggles had been practising magic, too? But how could this be? Where did urine and brick-dust and whatever else harness their power from? "I―" (and this was beyond imagining!) "―_I_ can perform magic, too?"

"'Course you can," Doris said, slapping me hard on the back and causing me to lurch forward. "So go on, then; get Floppy out."

"Floppy? What do you mean by―?" Oh, right. How very foul. "Don't call it that!"

"Sorry. What do _you _call it, then?"

"I―! Nothing! I don't call it anything!"

"Oh, very well. I'll let you get on with it, and I'll make the tea. Unless you need help, of course. I could hold it for you, if you want."

"No! _God no!_ Minnie, go make the tea!"

* * *

><p>We sipped our tea on the sofa, listening to some of Minnie's old "gramophone records";―I'm not certain what it means, exactly, but my closest guess is awful, scratchy music. Currently, a man with Lancashire accent was lamenting that a Chinese fellow had abandoned the laundry business for window cleaning. It really was a particularly bizarre libretto; but I suppose it was no less racist than <em>The Mikado<em>, and that's revered as a national treasure.

And then, between more of the same, it happened. The fireplace glowed green before us, and, in a moment, a Ministry agent appeared, clad in the same severe black two-piece they all wore.

But it couldn't be! We'd done the spell just as instructed by the late Sammie-Joe, herself. He stepped effortlessly over the brick-dust and came toward us, a dangerous sneer upon his countenance. Oh, why hadn't the spell worked?

This man was much more impressive than the last two. He was near 6'5, with a chest of pure concrete and arms about the size of my whole body. Every last expanse of his skin was covered in thick, dark, bulging scars. But hold on a minute. By Jove, I knew this one. Yes, I ought to, as his photo's been in the _Prophet _enough times. Billingsley, I'm sure he's called. He was that hotshot Auror who's always winning medals for bravery and honour and whatever else. What the hell were they doing sending_ him_ over for?

Before I could ponder over this or the failed spell any longer, Billingsley grabbed me and pulled me toward him with all the force of the Hogwarts Express; and Doris ran off in panic. Coward.

"Unbelievable," he said. "I could be in Russia, fighting the likes of Rasputin, and instead I'm sent here as a Muggle childminder."

"Unhand me, you big ox! Let me go!" I shouted, struggling under in his tight and rather painful grasp.

I decided, if ever there was a time to fight back, it was now. I summoned up my courage, felt my adrenaline rushing, my veins pumping with liquid energy, and I struck him and struck hard.

"Did you just slap me?" he said. "You did, you little ponce; you slapped me!"

"And there's more where that came from, my good man!" I threatened, adding to it a menacing stare for good measure.

"That's it," he said, twisting my arm behind my back, and I may or may not have bleated like a terrified ewe. "No more nonsense. I'm getting this job done, and then I'm moving on to something actually worth doing. Come on, we're go―"

_Clank!_

I felt him release me, heard him drop, and, when I spun around to see what had happened, there stood Minnie holding above her head, with both hands, one large, industrial, cast-iron frying pan. "Break into my home, will you?" she said, glaring down at him.

* * *

><p>Three and half rolls of duct tape later and Mr. Ministry Hound was securely tied―body, arms, and legs―to the kitchen chair, which we then bicycle-chained to the radiator. I found his wand in his coat pocket and made sure to confiscate it. This ugly bastard was going nowhere.<p>

When he woke from his slight concussion, he groaned and cursed and struggled valiantly. "Let me loose, you little blonde sissy! Can't fight your own battles, so you have your granny fight them for you, do you!"

"Shut up!" I shouted, though I could see the smugness in Minnie's face. "And you're one to talk; you just got beat up by her!"

"She had a frying pan!"

"That'll look great in the _Prophet_, won't it? 'Celebrated Auror Defeated by Shivery Old Crone.'" I ignored Minnie's objections and pressed on. "That's right, Billingsley; I know who you are."

"Yeah, so what?"

"So I want some answers. I want to know why they sent you. What's so important about me that they've sent their best man?"

"You think I'm going to talk, do you?" He laughed mockingly at me. "I've been through the Imperio and the Crucio; I've been under all the most powerful truth serums imaginable; and I never once talked. So, go on. Hit me with your best shot."

Damn it all. Without magic, I didn't stand a chance. I looked helplessly over at Min, who had put the kettle on. She must have noticed the desperation on my face, because she simply smiled back and said, "You leave it me, Draco. I've lived eighty-odd years. I've had failed relationship after failed relationship. If there's one thing I've learned in life, it's how to break a man."

She shoved past me and loomed over Billingsley. I say 'loomed', but it's probably just the hunch. In any case, she wiped her wands on her pinny and smirked down at him, saying, "So, you think you're untouchable, do you? You think you can come here and pick on this poor scrawny lad because you're the tougher man? I had a husband just like you, you know?"

Minnie lit a cigarette and, bringing it to her lips, took a long pull.

She continued, "A real man, you know, full of so much testosterone that he liked to hit women. You know what I did? I kept mum, took a slap now and again, and crushed my œstrogen tablets in his chili con carne every night. A few weeks' time and he was growing breasts and speaking like a twelve year old girl. Few weeks more and he'd gone mad. Had himself committed. I don't think you're so tough, Mr. Billingsley."

"Am I supposed to be scared of your little story, you withered old cunt?" he said, and spat on her dress. "You can't hurt me."

The kettle began to pipe, and Minnie, taking a final puff of her tobacco and stubbing it out, went to the stove and fetched it.

"You think a little scalding water is going to hurt me?" he continued, derisively. "I told you, I've been under the Crucia―_aaaaaaaah!_"

Perhaps I shouldn't have felt sympathy for him, considering he was sent on a mission against me, but every man and boy, regardless, must commiserate with the poor chap who gets boiling water poured over his private bits.

"You see," Minnie said, with no trace of remorse, "you hit a man in the nose, and he's taught not to cry. You sear his balls with a bit of boiling water, and suddenly he's little baby."

"You don't scare me!" he said, though it came out weak and ragged. And still, trying to convince himself more than anyone else, I imagine, he added, "You call this torture? This is nothing compared to―_aaaaaaaah!_"

I cringed again and nearly moved to stop her.

"And if you still won't talk," Minnie said, "I can do plenty of other things, too. You couldn't know the wild imagination whirling about inside this 'whithered old' mind. You know, I'm no doctor, but I reckon a circumcision isn't too difficult to pull off."

Billingsley, whose face should otherwise have been steely and menacing, suddenly became as terrified and pleading as any frightened child. His eyes shook; his mouth hung open; and, finally, with a tone of utter defeat, he said, "I'll talk. Please, just don't do anything more."

"Right," Minnie said, setting the kettle back on the stove. "My friend, Draco, has a few questions. Be a dear and answer them. I'll be here, listening,―making sure you answer properly."

Heavens above! I was only glad she was on my side. I made a mental reminder never to cross Minnie in any way. Ever.

"Billingsley," I said, "I know you're one of the best the Ministry's got."

"_The_ best," he corrected.

"Right. You do international espionage; you do tracking crime-lords;―that line of business. So what are you doing here, trying to capture me?"

"I don't know."

I heard the clink of Minnie lifting the kettle and felt my own down-unders tense up.

"No! Please!" Billingsley cried out. "Look, I'll tell you what I know! Please, put it down!"

It clinked down again, and both he and I breathed out in relief.

"Someone high up in the Ministry asked specifically for me. I was in Russia at the time, tracking Rasputin, like I said. Then, all of a sudden, I was called back and given a new assignment. I was quickly debriefed, and that was it. I don't ask questions. I just follow orders. I couldn't understand it myself, but that's the job sometimes. They hit you with really strange stuff, and you've just got to do it. And, for God's sake, that's the honest truth."

"Let me get this straight," I said, indeed having difficulty believing what I had just heard. "Someone wanted me apprehended so much that he pulled you from your mission in Russia? But _why?_" What madness was this? To them, I ought only to be a pest,―a peeving little orphan who's run away from his foster parents. How could I take priority over an international high-security mission?

"I don't know! Please have pity!" he cried, knowing what likely was to follow an answer like that. "I can't tell you because I honestly don't know!"

Behind me came the _snip, snip_ of the meat scissors, and my eyes bugged out in horror.

Needless-to-say, Billingsley was beside himself. "Oh God! Make her stop. Please! I'm begging you,―man to man. Don't let her do that to me!"

I turned to Minnie, seeing the serrated metal glinting in the air. "Minnie," I said, hearing desperation in my own voice. "Not just yet, okay? Put them away for now."

She shrugged. "Your call."

Billingsley's eyes welled with tears of appreciation. "Oh, bless you! Bless you, child!"

"We're not done," I said, trying to remain stoic and to shake off the undue sympathy. "I need to know something more. You said 'someone high up' summoned you specifically. Who was it?"

"If I tell you," he said, fear rising in his tone once again, "I'll be finished. He'll have me thrown out the agency."

"And if you _don't_ tell me, I'll leave you here with Minnie, and she can sort you out."

"You're bluffing," he said, though his nervousness betrayed him. "This is the oldest trick in the book. This is 'good cop, bad cop'."

"No," I said, very calmly. "I'm 'good cop'; she's a crazed woman with a pair of dull scissors, looking to make you Jewish."

He let out a strangled, high-pitched squeak. Such a proud, mighty man reduced to this. I underscored and circled my mental note about never crossing Minnie.

"Now, tell me," I said. "Tell me who's sent you."

He heaved out a tired, broken sigh and said, "Lucius Malfoy."

* * *

><p><strong> NOTES<strong>

For those interested, crunk is short for "crazy-drunk"; hence―Crunk Juice.

Be sure to check out the **ILLUSTRATIONS** of this story at:  
><strong>jakeyoliver (dot) livejournal (dot) com<strong>

All my love,  
>Jacob<p> 


	8. 8 Harry Potter

**Draco Malfoy, Muggle**

**by Jacob Oliver**

**Chapter 8. Harry Potter.**

* * *

><p>It had been nearly six hours fighting through the storm and enduring a very sore bottom indeed before I'd finally arrived at the Burrow. I know I wasn't the most welcome guest under the current circumstances, but, golly, I needed a friendly face. I only hoped Ron was still on my side.<p>

Fortunately, it being a weekday, the Weasleys had all turned in early and were now likely fast asleep. I found Ron's room up top, and, hovering by his window and proceeding to wipe the glass of rain, I peeped inside in search of red hair. He was in his bed, as I had expected, snug and sound, and I almost hated to bother him.

_Tap, tap, tap._

"Ron."

_Tap, tap, tap!_

"Ron! Ron, it's me!"

He shifted about at first beneath his old feathery eiderdown, until he'd finally managed to hoist himself up. "Eh?" He rubbed at his eyes, and his voice sounded half-asleep. "Is somebody at the door?"

"No! I'm out here. The window, Ron." _Tap, tap, tap. _I shone a bright Lumos upon my face so he could see me.

It was just the trick to wake him, it seemed; for, his eyes growing wide upon seeing me, he cried out, "Harry!" and leapt from his bed.

"Shhh!" I cautioned, but he'd already ran toward me, flinging open the window in so a great rush that I nearly had my face boffed in by the glass.

Steadying the broom, I began to pull myself inside. Ron, trying to be helpful, I'm sure, yanked me in a moment too quickly, causing me to come crashing forwards and land smack on top of him.

"I'm glad to see you too, mate," he said, with a smirk; "but you're soaking, so do me a favour and gerroff!" He shoved at me, playfully of course, though I was still knocked over onto the floor. "I'll get you a towel and a change of clothes."

Golly, I was glad see him.

"It'll be a tad long for you, but you won't mind," he said, handing me an old pair of jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. I was surprised he was so calm, but, of course, it wasn't to last, and just as I'd picked up the towel to dry off, he'd shouted, "Bloody hell, Harry! Where've you been?"

I sighed out audibly and began to change. "Everywhere. Nowhere. You'd not believe me anyway. Gosh, I'm tired."

"You didn't bring _him_, did you?" He peered out the window, searching for Malfoy, until I pulled him away and shook my head.

"No. He's not here. I'm done helping him." I peeled off the wet shirt and began towelling myself. "Are you angry that I went against your father? I don't blame you if you are."

He sat down on the bed. "I mean, I was a bit confused. Nobody would tell me what was going on. You just bring in some stranger one morning, completely out of the blue, and then, the day after, you're on the run with him. Oh, and, to top it off, you stole Hermione's wand and all! _Why_, Harry? Do you know what you're getting yourself into?" (a pause, then) "I heard Dad talking about it. You can get prosecuted by the Wizengamot! Do you realise that?"

"I know," I said, sighing out and running a hand through my mop.

"Then why are you doing it?"

"I'm not," I insisted. "I mean, not anymore. I'm done."

"Then why _did_ you do it?"

"I don't know. He needed help. So I..."

"Harry," he said, "I know you love being everyone's hero, but you've got to choose your maidens-in-distress more carefully."

"I know," was all I could reply.

"Now look, if you just tell Dad where the orphan is, he'll be able to help you. He'll appeal to the Wizengamot and―"

"No!" I shouted, without realising it; "they can't have him!"

Ron frowned. "They only want to do what's good for him."

"No, they don't! They think he's a Muggle, so they want to take away his memory and throw him at Social Services! Well, I won't let them!"

"Harry," he said, calmly now, because I was shaking in anger, "I thought you said you were done helping him."

"I am! … I mean, I don't know!" I held my head with both hands; it had begun a steady throb. And suddenly all I could think about was that surge of emotion, warmth―or, rather, _heat_―, and the loss of breath when our lips brushed. Brushed? Who was I kidding? I _forced_ them together. A _kiss_. A sloppy, horrid,―_rapturous_ kiss. What is the matter with me?

"Harry?" Ron was looking at me, concerned. I could feel myself blushing, and quickly I covered my cheeks. "Talk to me, Harry. Please. What's going on?"

It needed to be said. It was killing me, messing―_fucking!_―with my head.

And I suppose if there was any time to talk to Ron about my potential unspeakable attraction towards Malfoy, it was now, when Ron had no recollection of _who_ Malfoy actually was.

"He..." I took a deep breath. "He makes me confused."

Ron was still looking at me, an expectant stare, so I mustered up the will to continue.

"I don't know. I can't explain it. He makes me feel funny...feel strange."

"Why? Is he a weirdo?"

I could feel my body trembling―could feel the palpitations in my heart. Standing in front of Ron, stammering and struggling for words, it felt like a long-coming confession―but of what? I certainly didn't know; or rather, I knew what the confession was _meant_ to be, but it didn't seem real, _authentic_. It didn't feel as though there were an imminent secret buried somewhere inside my body; and yet, the course of my actions and yearnings of late seemed to require that there _was_. Ron was waiting, his freckled mien furrowed with both concern and impatience.

"No. Not at all," I said, and exhaling―"but perhaps...perhaps _I _am."

Ron quirked a brow. "You're what?"

"For God's sake, Ron, I kissed him!" I said in one breath.

There was some confusion in Ron's face for the first few seconds, and I stayed silent, allowing the cogs in his brain to turn and register what I had told him. It wasn't long before his body lurched backwards and his eyes widened in―surprise? horror? repulsion?

"Harry! You're gay?"

The word struck me as he said it. It felt so foreign, so estranging, and my body searched the sums of its experiences, perhaps in a vain attempt to bridge itself toward that _being_. But, indeed, I could feel no familiarity: for what does _being_ "gay" mean? Is it an _essence _within me that holds dictatorship over my behaviour, desires, and experiences? Does my attraction to Malfoy presuppose a nature, in-born and immutable, that officiates my lifestyle and the most intimate of my emotions?

I began to think of Cho. I had liked her. I had wanted to hold her and to kiss her. And, in guilty secret, I had dreamt of spreading her on my four-poster and hearing her moan my name. But as time moved on, so too did my feelings and attractions. Did I still like Cho _today_? Perhaps a little. Perhaps if she made the first move, I might even share a kiss. But it wasn't her, at this present moment in time and space, for whom my mind and heart went a flutter.

"Are you gay, Harry?" Ron repeated.

That was the question, wasn't it? Was I now―recently filled with these unexplainable desires for my arch-nemesis―to be squeezed into the mould of the Homosexual, a frame that would henceforth define me in society and construct me to myself?

Rather than answer Ron, I questioned in return. "Does having kissed him make me 'gay'?"

"Yes!" he shouted, as though the answer were undeniable and apparent.

I didn't reply. Instead, I sat myself on his bed and, looking out at the night, ruminated some more on―whatever _it _was. A condition? A behaviour?

"So," Ron said, and, when I turned to him, he was standing against the moonlight, rubbing the back of his head, "does this mean you're going to suck me off?"

I nearly choked on my saliva. "What!"

"Isn't that what gay mates do? Suck off their straight friends?"

"Where on earth did you hear that, Ron!"

Ron blushed. "Charlie."

He knew about Charlie? Golly, that was a turn up.

"Charlie used to let his gay friends suck him off all the time."

Or maybe not.

This was growing far too uncomfortable. I needed to put the tin hat on it before it could get any more mortifying. "You're not my type, Ron." I said, hoping that was the end of it, but apparently it only opened a whole other can of worms.

"You think I'm ugly?" Ron asked, his words pouring out bruised and hurt.

"What? No!"

"Is it because I'm ginger? Is that it? Or is it my big ears? Or because I'm too skinny?"

"Ron, stop!"

He spoke bitterly. "Oh, I'm sorry―how could I ever compete with _him_? Go on, then. Go back to your gorgeous Aryan snowflake. Oh, just leave!"

"Ron! My God! Are you jealous?" I asked, completely astonished by his behavior.

He went rigid. "What? No! Of course I'm not! Why would I be? What made you ever think of a thing like that?"

"Well, you're kicking out of your house for refusing to give you a―" I couldn't bring myself to say 'blowjob' in front of him, but he got the idea.

"I wouldn't let you suck me off if you begged me, Harry James Potter!" Ron said, crossing his arms and turning his head away.

"I don't want to suck you off!"

Glowering―"You _bastard!_ Some friend you are!"

"Ron, you're being ridiculous!"

"Oh, _I'm_ being ridiculous, am I? I'm not the one having a sordid sex-capade with a Muggle on the lamb!"

I was about to open my mouth to deny such an outrageous claim―and to question the validity of the term 'sex-capade'―when I heard voices coming from the ground floor.

"What's that?" I asked, alarmed.

Ron didn't respond, apparently giving me the cold-shoulder now; and so I quietly opened the door a very small crack and listened. The light was turned on, streaming up from downstairs. I first recognised Mr Weasley's voice.

"Would you like a drink, Paddy?"

"No, thank you, Mr Weasley," came the other voice, Liverpudlian or Brummie―I could never tell the difference. "I've just come to tell you that we've found him. He's near Newcastle, and he's well protected."

"Well protected? How?"

"The house he's hiding in has some kind of powerful enchantment."

"I see." He took a swig of something. "And how was he located?"

"Apparently Mr Malfoy tracked him and put Billingsley on the case. We haven't heard anything from him since."

I was astonished. Why would Malfoy's father want to track him? He wasn't to do with Muggle Relations. And Billingsley? Didn't he do international work?

"Lucius? What's he meddling for? _I'm_ head of Muggle Relations."

"Yes, but he outranks you," Paddy said. "We'll be sending more men down to try to break the enchantment. Will you come, Mr Weasley?"

"But is it really worth all this trouble, Paddy? I mean, why are we sending _Billingsley_, of all people, plus half the Ministry, just to apprehend one Muggle? Perhaps if we change our technique... Yes, perhaps we can reason with him. For instance, we can allow him to keep his memory as long as he swears an oath never to reveal the secrets of the Wizardingworld."

"It's too late for that," said Paddy. "Mr Malfoy has already ordered a full magical transorbital lobotomy to be administered on Leroy Bucket upon arrest."

I turned to Ron in horror. "Ron, what the hell is transorbital lobotomy?"

Ron was staring back at me, white as a counterpane. "I thought those were in only horror stories..." He gulped. "It's not pleasant, Harry. They take two ice picks enchanted with a memory-destroying spell, and they hammer them into your eye-sockets."

I felt nauseous and and stumbled to sit down.

"The spell targets the brain fibers in your temporal lobe, and they slice into them, mutilating all access to your memories. And the worst part is after the surgery. The patient can never remember anything ever again. He becomes a walking zombie for the rest of his life―living purely on instinct, never able to communicate with anyone, soiling himself and forgetting it's even in his pants."

"That can't be legal!" I managed after catching my breath.

"I didn't think so either."

Before I could say anything more, the door burst open, revealing Paddy―a rough, dark-haired man with a scar down his cheek―and Mr Weasley, both with their wands poised.

"I thought I heard your voice," Mr Weasley said to me. "You're in a lot of trouble, Harry. _Petrificus Totalus!_"

But Ron, in a flying leap, shielded me from the curse, which collided into him with a sharp, painful crack. He was instantly frozen and collapsed onto the floor in a solid block. Wasting no time and stupefying each of the men before they could return fire, I dashed onto my broom and sped away―northeast.

* * *

><p>I could see them, the Ministry men, dressed in what they <em>understood<em> to be Muggle clothes, hovering around the house. A man in daisy dukes, legwarmers, and a sombrero went continuously up and down the road walking his miniature schnauzer. A woman wearing a satin ballgown, Ugg boots, and a pillbox hat jogged briskly around the general vicinity. More wizards in everything from bellbottoms to crushed velvet coats paraded around pretending to be minding their own business.

I landed several houses away, in the alleyway, and, as stealthily as I could, crept toward the back of the house, scaled the wooden fence, and, upon entering the privacy of the back garden, raced to the kitchen door. An _Alohomora_ unlocked it, and, stepping over the red dust, I shut the door behind me.

And there he was―Billingsley, duct-taped to a chair, covered in burn-blisters, and shouting into his gag. And then came a sharp pain in the back of my head, and all was black.

* * *

><p>I woke up with a devil of headache and, blinking my eyes open, perceived a bright, bond-white room, a metal bedpan, and the sounds of a tanoy. I listened carefully, trying to understand what had happened and where I was.<p>

A _ding!_ and gravelly speakers: "Dr Gupta to Geriatrics. Dr Gupta to Geriatrics. Maude Pumpernickel has been confusing her morphine patches for HRT again. She is passed out hairy and naked in the waiting room and is making all the visitors ill."

Dear God! I was in hospital! I lunged forwards in my bed, and, much more lucidly now, scanned my surroundings.

"Well, finally, Potter."

There was Malfoy at the corner, seated on an armchair and reading a magazine.

"Muggles really have the most preposterous sense of fashion. Listen to this: 'Goodbye Skinny-Jeans, Meggings are the New Must-Have!'"

"Malfoy!"

"Christ, would you look at that?" He held out the picture. "Black and white stripe. You'd think a person would know he's hit rock bottom when he's taking fashion advice from a mime."

I cringed at the picture, but soon forced myself to get back to the subject at hand.

"I don't care about meggings, Malfoy! What am I in hospital for?"

"Mild traumatic brain injury," he said, flipping the page. "Oh, I do like the look of those brogues. Can we get me a pair?"

I took several staggered gasps of air before I could shout: "_Brain injury!_"

"_Mild_ brain injury, Potter. Don't spin my words."

"Malfoy," I said, trying to restrain myself from leaping up and throttling him, "what is going on?"

"Well," he said, setting down the magazine and picking up another, "you're in a hospital bed, recuperating from mild traumatic brain injury and a subsequent coma, and I am about to read an article on the 'Best Lowfat Wensleydale Tortilla', apparently."

I couldn't believe my ears. "_Coma!_"

"Yes, Potter, that's what I said. Now, do you want to hear about this tortilla or not?"

"No! Of course I don't want to hear about that stupid tortilla!"

"Well, pardon me for trying to bring some exotic charm to this hospital's fairly unpalatable menu. I had a rubbery croissant yesterday that still gives me nightmares."

"Yesterday? How long have I been in a coma?"

"Just last night and most of today."

"Malfoy, please just explain to me what happened."

He rolled his eyes and closed his reading matter. "Oh very well, if you must be so nosey. I heard a noise in the kitchen and thought there was another break-in. So I peeped inside, saw someone next to Billingsley, and, with a flying dash of valiance and fearlessness, bashed your brains in with a copper pot."

Unbelievable! "_You _put me in a coma?"

"Only because I thought you were trying to set Billingsley free. And I didn't know it was you, did I?" Smirking―"If I did, I might have have used cast-iron."

I glared. "How did we get here? Surely the Ministry men would have captured us if we left the house."

"The same way you came in. I dragged your fat lump of deadweight through the back garden, over the fence, slung your arm around my shoulder, and walked us all the way here."

That I hadn't expected. Never in my life would I have thought that Malfoy would carry me nearly three miles to hospital. I mean, yes, he was the cause of my injury in the first place, but I'd never have thought he'd actually try to save me in consequence. Surely, he'd have let me die in agony.

"They found you and rushed you in for immediate attention."

I was about to thank him, when I re-assessed his last statement and found myself immediately confused. "What do you mean 'they _found _me?'"

He looked surprised. "Is that what I said?"

"Yes, it was."

"Oh." He quickly became engrossed in his magazine. "Virgo, are you? Or is it Leo? Either way, you've got a spicy romance heading your way..."

"Malfoy!"

He sighed out and threw the magazine onto the table beside him. "Okay, so I couldn't carry you all the way. What do you want from me? I haven't got super-strength. Perhaps if you weren't so quick to dismiss foods like that lovely lowfat tortilla, I might have been able make it."

I could feel myself blushing, and, reflexively, I sucked in my belly. "I'll have you know I ate cabbage soup for a whole week and nothing happened!" I shouted out. "Those magazines are useless!"

Oh dear God, did I really just say that? How mortifying! I nervously glanced toward him and saw that devilish smile creeping upon his lips.

"Anyway, that's not the point!" I cut in before he could say anything to humiliate me further. "Just tell me what happened. How did they find me?"

I could see him physically biting back the urge to tease me cruelly, and I sighed out in relief when he allowed it to pass. "Well, I dropped you on a kerb about a half mile from the hospital, and, at that point, I was ready to collapse myself, not to mention the awful lumbago. Well, I was sure I was suffering from over-exhaustion, and so decided to pop over to hospital anyway to get myself checked up. Now, I _had_ intended to mention you to the doctor and get them to send someone to fetch you, but when the doctor said I had myalgia, I thought, 'Dear God, this is it!' I thought I was going to _die_, Potter. You can't begrudge me a little forgetfulness in such a circumstance. Well, wasn't my face red when he explained that 'myalgia' was simply a fancy term for a body ache?" He chuckled to himself.

I couldn't believe my ears. "You forgot to tell them about me? You're unbelievable, Malfoy!"

"Oh, don't be so hysterical, Potter. You were found eventually. If you must know, a pair of drunken Geordies tripped over your body and, after several attempts to regain footing, rushed you to the mortuary forthwith."

"What!"

"Well, they thought you were dead, didn't they? Anyway, the mortician figured it out in the end." His wicked smile crept out again. "But, I think they forgot to take that off you." He nodded to my feet.

I looked down and, in absolute horror, saw the tag tied to my toe.

Malfoy was laughing hysterically as I struggled to rip it off. He doubled over when I managed to knee myself in the face in the process.

When I'd finally torn it off, Malfoy was wiping away tears. "Actually, _I _put that there. I wanted to see the look on your face when you found it! Shall I do an impression?"

He twisted his face in mock horror and laughed again. Bastard.

"Very funny, Malfoy!" I said, rubbing at the new bruise that was spreading on my forehead.

"Oh, grow a sense of humour, Potter. Anyway, this is all _your_ fault. You're either full of empty threats or caprice. You left in an hysterical, overzealous huff, offended about God-knows-what, and with the promise you'd never again return. And, only the next morning, you're breaking and entering. So what is it, Potter? Are you back to help or what?"

I looked at him. He had stood up and moved to the foot of the bed, bearing down at me with intimidation. But it hadn't the aggression and threat by which I had once come to be acquainted. Beneath the glare, somewhere in the bluish-greys of his eyes that flicked away for only a second, somewhere in the delay of his blink, in the fall of his lashes, somewhere in what may have been an imperceptible tremble of his jaw, there was a plea, a hope, that I would stay. And it's all I needed, to know I had pledged to him my allegiance. And I hated myself for it.

"There's an order to lobotomise you."

With shock and bewilderment―"That's not possible."

"I was at the Burrow and―"

"You were _where!_ Are you retarded, Potter!"

"I needed to talk to Ron! Look, just shut up and listen! A man came in and told Mr Weasley that the Ministry had bumped up your priority. That's why all those Aurors are surrounding Minnie's house. They're ordered to capture and lobotomise you on the spot. And Malfoy..." I didn't wish to reveal it, but he had the right to know. "The orders came from your father."

His expression was cold. "I know," he said, and began to pace. "I got it out of Billingsley."

"I'm sorry."

"Oh, don't be soft, Potter. Look, it's a good thing we're out of the house. We'll need to go into deeper hiding." He paused and looked at me. He appeared almost small suddenly. "That is," he continued, slowly, deliberately, "if you're coming with me."

It was my turn to laugh. "Don't be so soft, Malfoy," I mocked. "Now where's my wand? I need to heal my brain."


	9. 9 Draco Malfoy

**Draco Malfoy, Muggle**

**by Jacob Oliver**

**Chapter 9. Draco Malfoy.**

* * *

><p>"Malfoy, where did you get that handbag?"<p>

I confess, I'm not terribly proud of resorting to petty theft. Frankly, there's something naggingly common about pinching an old lady's handbag. It had to be done, however, and so in prudence and foresight I made certain that said old lady was utterly bedridden and possibly terminal, so that, should things have gotten hairy, I'd have a flying headstart, purse in hand, while she'd still be struggling to rip the intravenous hooks from her thighs. Afterwards, it would have been a simple case of allowing the sudden loss of vital hydration, as well as the potential hemorrhaging of the lacerated veins, to keel her sideways before she could round the corridor and catch up.

"It's not Doris's purse, is it?"

"Of course it isn't, Potter! There was nothing in that but bourbon, a second wig, and two strips of denture adhesives."

"You went digging in Doris's purse?"

"Well, I haven't got X-ray vision, have I? The point is, she didn't have anything worth stealing. Now, that poor unconscious woman two rooms down, however..."

"The one in intensive care?"

"That's the one. Well, the priest had come to give her the last rites, and it's a bloody good thing people pray with their eyes closed, or else I might not have been able to swipe the bag unnoticed."

"You're horrid!"

"Oh, do spare me your morals, Potter. You _know _we need the money. We're homeless in the backwater of Britain, and I should like to leave before a gang of youths with incomprehensible accents beat me up for having all my teeth." I wagged the purse at him. "This ugly, and frankly, badly stitched handbag is our only ticket out of here. See reason for once in your life, Potter. We can't fly anywhere because we don't have the broom. We can't go back to Minnie's because the Ministry is still there, with orders to lobotomize me on sight, I might add. So unless you've any better ideas, we're going to use that potentially dead woman's money to get us on a train and out of this northern wasteland for good!"

"And where _exactly _would we go?"

"Isn't it obvious, Potter? Who is it that's most interested in capturing me?"

Potter's eyebrows shot up. "You can't mean..."

"We're infiltrating Malfoy Manor."

* * *

><p>"Potter, I'd rather <em>die<em> than get on one of those!"

Imagine, me, the heir to the illustrious Malfoy line, standing in a queue at a _coach_ station. I held my breath, endeavouring not to inhale the fumes of detergent and day-old urine that the cleaner was sloshing about the linoleum with a rag on a stick.

In front of us, a young tart with chipped nail varnish and a hole in her stocking was shouting at her newborn infant to quote, "Stop your crying before I deck ya!" In front of her, a grunting man in coveralls was picking his teeth with a retractable blade knife and attempting to flirt with the aforesaid young tart. And then there was the woman at the ticket counter who kept rubbing her nose and getting mucus on everyone's tickets.

Potter ignored my protests and retching. Maybe his kind was accustomed to shoddy service, an hygienically impoverished environment, and the company of the morally bankrupt, but I certainly was _not_.

"Look Malfoy, I'm not happy that you stole this money, but if we _must _use it, we'll spend it frugally and make it last."

"But Potter, the ugly old woman behind us keeps farting!"

"I am not!" she said, unashamedly.

I whirled around. "So oxygen is _meant_ to smell like your shit, is it?"

* * *

><p>"Pinch your nostrils. And <em>don't<em> hold your head back, Malfoy, or you'll choke on your blood."

I suppose it shouldn't come as a surprise in Newcastle that nana was a former streetboxer.

The bus grumbled in its pace, and, halfway along, the old crone eventually stopped farting only to get up and dislodge the most rancid turd imaginable in the en suite, leaving the door open, of course, in case we all hadn't gotten a good enough whiff.

"Oh God..." Potter said, holding his nose.

"This is all your fault, Potter. If you'd gotten train tickets like I'd told you―"

"I think I'm going to be sick."

"_Don't you dare!_"

* * *

><p>"Please stop sobbing, Malfoy. Gosh, I said I was sorry! I couldn't help it," Potter simpered, a pathetic attempt at contrition. No matter how many <em>mea culpas<em> he could muster, my mauve cardie and slimfit trousers would never recover from the half-digested remains of his hospital tetrazinni.

"Come on, Malfoy, don't cry," he continued, in that horrible consoling tone of voice which I really wished he'd stop using. "I'll be able to cast a cleaning spell when we're out of sight."

I glared at him. "I am _not_ crying, you four-eyed baboon! The acid vapors from your sick is burning my eyeballs!"

It was nearly midday now, as we walked along the foggy bit of country road that led to the manor grounds, all the while trailing turkey chunks and globs of linguine behind us. Honestly, does Potter even chew his food?

When we were sure we'd no longer be seen, Potter did finally cast the charm, but I know I could still smell parmesan. I would have made Potter switch coats with me, but I'd never be caught dead in synthetic.

"Are you sure this is the way to the manor?" Potter asked, as we ducked into the craggy patch of woodland I played in as a child.

"We're not heading to the manor just yet."

"No? But why?"

"You really are a damned fool, aren't you? What are we going to do, just pop in and say, 'Hello, I know I'm a Muggle and he's the arsehole who stole your house-elf, but would you mind letting us in, anyway? We only want to rifle through your things for evidence you're involved in some horrible conspiracy to capture and lobotomize your own son.'?"

"Okay, I get it. But where _are _we going, then? Ow! Fucking nettle!"

"Not exactly. That's a magical variant. We'll need that for the potion."

Well, two potions to be precise. We'd need a polyjuice potion―I'd plucked the necessary hairs from two sleeping college students on the coach―as well as a little known, and highly illegal potion which, when imbibed, would scramble the wards and security charms up to a certain radius.

It took until nightfall for all the ingredients to be gathered and for the potions themselves to be fully brewed. But when they were, I was a tall rugby player from Man. U. and Potter was―well...

"Malfoy!"

"What?"

"You didn't tell me I'd be a girl!"

I smirked. "Didn't I? It must have skipped my mind."

He was about to respond when his eyes went suddenly wide, and his whole face crumpled in seemingly horrible pain. "Oh god, Malfoy! Ow..." He breathed in suddenly, then―"_OOOOOW!_", after which he promptly fell to the ground, writhing most churlishly indeed and screaming obscenities into the open air.

"Potter, do be quiet or we'll be found out! What the devil is wrong with you?"

And then, balled up in the dirt, the _crying_ began.

"I _hate _you, Malfoy, you big blonde bully!"―sniffle, eye wipe―"You've always been really mean to me all throughout school! _Why? _How can you be so cruel? You pig!" Then he was screaming again, incoherently.

It wasn't until I saw the patch of red on his crotch that I understood―and cringed. Clearly, men didn't have the balls, as it were, for feminine pain.

"Potter, calm down. You've been through the Cruciatus, for God's sake."

"Calm down? _Calm down?! _Have you ever had a period before? Didn't think so, dickshit! The Cruciatus is a walk in the fucking seashore compared to this! _I HATE YOU!_"

"Now, now, there's no need for all that..."

He suddenly stood up and, with what strength he had, grabbed me by the collar and hissed: "If you patronise me just once more, Draco Lucius Malfoy, I will cut off your scrotum and use it as a coin-purse; have you got that, you snivelling little shite?"

I _eeped_ despite myself. It was difficult not to be intimidated by the busty hussy that stood in front of me, legs dripping with blood and, somewhere therein, a dying unfertilized ovum.

Regaining composure, I disengaged Potter's hand from my person and straightened my shirt. "If you think you can outbitch Pansy during her heavy flows, you're gravely mistaken. She once stabbed Goyle with a stiletto pump just for whistling. Now, chin up, and transfigure our clothes into something more befitting a Christmas ball."

He sputtered. "A _ball?_"

"Yes, the annual Malfoy Christmas Charity Ball. It should already have started; I hope we sha'n't be too late."

"_Charity?_"

"Oh, nothing like starving children, or other such absurdity. The proceeds goes to the BNP. British Non-Muggleborn Party."

"You can't be serious."

"Honestly, it's not as bad as all that. In fact, they provide monetary incentive for Muggleborns to repatriate themselves to the Muggle world, where they belong."

"Right, later when there's time, we'll have a long session on post-colonial theory 101, but for now, this will have to suffice"―and he punched me hard in the thigh.

"_Ow!_ Fuck! Potter! That hurt!"

"Just be lucky you're not menstruating, you racist, misogynist, elitist scum!" He hunched over, grasping at his cervical region.

"Christ, Potter. Are you off to burn your brassiere as well? That girl, no doubt, must have been from San Francisco."

"I need pills."

"Just cast an analgesic charm."

"I've cast five! How do you think I'm able to walk?" He enchanted his fallopian tubes once more and, sighing in some relief, said, "Now, Malfoy, won't they suspect we're not actually guests?"

"Certainly not. Anyone who can donate the money is given entrance. We'll sneak into the garden and join the guests at the veranda, and, once we're inside mingling, everyone will assume we've already donated."

Well, it wasn't all that simple, actually. We needed to _look_ the part as well. If there's one thing they'll able to sniff out, it's shoddy evening wear.

"Now, Potter, concentrate: three-piece suit, black; for god's sake no cumberbun, we're not attending a Hollywood premiere!; emerald waistcoat, silk; cotton gloves, _cream_ not white; top hat, of course; and a grand, but not showy, cravat―satin shall suffice."

Praying that the scrambling potion would efficiently overcome the manor wards, we climbed the ivy over the west wall and into mother's rose garden.

"Be careful not to fray your gown on the thorns, Potter: a displaced thread is most unladylike and shall met, in proper society, with severe disapprobation."

"Oh, go to hell, Malfoy," he replied, hiking up his crêpe de Chine décolleté―_his_ choice, not mine, of course, as I always felt crêpe bore a striking resemblance to toilet tissue. But Potter's transfiguration skills were lacking indeed, and it was the closest he could come to a more tasteful ruffled chiffon. It would do, I suppose.

"And for Christ's sake, Potter," I said, lowering his hem, "if you must lift your dress, not so high, and only with _one_ hand. And never, _never_, by the hoops!"

"Where then? And what woman still wears fucking crinoline? I feel like Scarlett O'Hara."

"Shush! Just mind your manners, please. In fact, don't do anything unless someone else has done it first. Then, at the first opportunity, we'll sneak away to Father's study and scour his things."

As we made it to the veranda, where a sizable number of people were smoking and indulging in punch, we too decided to venture to the refreshment table where Geoffrey, our second footman, stood serving. Peeping into the ballroom, as we passed the open glass double-doors, I could see that it would be slightly more difficult than I'd hoped to enter Father's study unnoticed. Several ladies with lace fans stood nearby the hall leading toward it, gossiping away about whom they would like to minuet with this evening, &c., and wagering whose dance card would have the most names by the ball's close. Our operation would need, first and foremost, a distraction.

"Two glasses of punch, if you will, Ge―" I stopped myself before I said his name. I had to bear in mind that nobody knew who I was, and thereby I shouldn't know them.

We were at the fountain, sipping our beverage and formulating our next move, when I saw, in my periphery, Dewsbury, our butler, eyeing us gravely from the steps. Potter must have noticed too, for he said, "Don't look now, Malfoy, but I think we're busted."

"Just stay calm, Potter, and let me do the talking." Easier said than done, this staying-calm lark. Considering this function was more-or-less a Dark Wizards' convention, they would be none too pleased to find a Muggle and the Golden Boy infiltrating their charity social. I gulped as Dewsbury turned towards us and began walking straight over.

"What are we going to do, Malfoy?"

"Shut up, Potter." Suddenly he stood before us, all six foot four of him, eyes as cold and dark as the night. Before he could speak, however, I decided to turn on the old Malfoy charm. I eyed him caustically and said, as though he were not worth the dirt beneath my boots, "Yes, what is it? Why are we to be accosted by the help? There is a lady present, do you realise? What shall the hostess say about this insolence!"

Dewsbury only stared back at me, unamused and unphased. "The _hostess_," he said dryly, "is passed out under an oak tree after one too many Old Fashioneds, but I'm certain, were she lucid in the slightest, Mrs. Malfoy would indeed be most appalled by this exchange; and for that, sir, I apologize most fervently and hope you will relay that contrition to the young miss beside you in due time. However, I have come on behalf of the young couple at the courtyard who hope for an introduction; but, seeing as it has most heinously distressed your sensibilities, I shall return to them forthwith and communicate your courteous but firm rejection. Thank you, sir."

Damn. I forgot I was dealing with _Father's_ butler. Anyone who has lasted under Father's employ for as long he had could only end up the bitterest and most sardonic arsehole in existence.

He had scathed me, to be sure, but beyond all that, I was simply relieved that he hadn't found us out after all. With some embarrassment, I said, "No, actually, perhaps an introduction wouldn't go amiss. Where are they now?"

I gazed over at the courtyard, and, lo, by the topiary, stood a young pair that couldn't be over twenty-five at most. He was wearing a suit flashier than mine, but certainly less tasteful, and she, a ghastly two-tone tafetta with bows down the side and a button-down front.

I quirked a brow at Dewsbury. "New money?"

"I'm sure you'd know all about that, sir," he replied.

Why, Dewsbury had never been this cocky to me in all my memory. I suppose he'd only treated me with respect before because I was his master's heir apparent.

I pushed down the urge to throttle the son of a bitch and simply replied, "Well, I suppose we're here to be charitable this evening, are we not? Bring them over then. You may introduce us as the Honourable Merill Goddard Jr and his fiancée Miss Eloise DuBois of New York."

When Dewsbury left to fetch them, Potter spun toward me, horrified. "Of _New York?!_"

"Yes, Potter. Even though they're new money, they'll smell bad manners a mile off. If they think you're American, perhaps they shall be more forgiving."

"But my American accent is terrible."

"Quickly, let me hear it."

He sounded like an old Jewish mother.

"I just bought the complete first series of _The Nanny_, you see. It's hilarious. Oh come on, at least Queens is in New York."

I sighed out audibly. "Well, it'll have to do, won't it? Do you know how to curtsey?"

"Of course not."

"Oh, for fuck's―!"

"Ahem." I turned around to see Dewsbury and the smiling young social-climbers behind him. Introductions were then made, Potter curtsied like a corpse with rigor mortis, and Dewsbury left with an air of a man who had far better things to do.

"Do forgive our boldness," Miss Thompson said, cheerily. "It's only, you two are easily the only other couple tonight below forty, and so darling James and I thought it might be nice to say hello. So, 'Hello!'"―a grotesque giggle―"Oh, and may I say, what a lovely dress you have on, Miss Dubois! Is it chiffon?"

Oh, she was new money all right.

"Oh, do tell me all about New York, Miss DuBois!" she continued, pulling Potter to sit by her on the fountain. "Is it as wild and carefree as I have read in storybooks? Do you fear daily the red-skinned savages with their tomahawks and arrows? How fearfully exciting it all must be across the Atlantic divide!"

"Well, actually, I think you'll find―"

"Heavens! What an irrepressibly charming accent you have! Don't you gentlemen agree?"

"Miss DuBois's accent," I replied, "is, to be sure, as irrepressibly charming as your dress, Miss Thompson―_ow!_"

Potter had nudged me hard in the ribs, but Miss Thompson, lost in her strange world, didn't seem to notice and, instead flushing with flattery, thanked me "most heartily, indeed."

"How do you know the Malfoys?" the male of the two asked, with his unstarched collar and unoiled hair. Ah, so this was what they were about. This tawdry twosome were hoping to befriend someone with connections, and so wished to find out whom we knew.

"We don't,―not personally anyway," I said, and they instantly turned glum.

"But your title―!" she began, most coarsely, but her "gentleman" friend restrained her.

"Vivian!"

It seemed Potter perhaps was not the most lowbred in the party after all.

I smiled at them, the smile that made them sweat through their shabby ensembles. "Just who _are_ you two, really?"

Before I saw it coming, James had fallen to his knees, bawling and pleading their case. "It's true, we couldn't afford the donation but sneaked in anyway! Please don't report us, Mr Goddard, I beseech you! We're but a young couple trying to crawl our way up the social ladder. You can't fault us for wanting better. Please!"

"Get up, for Christ's sake, man!" I said, yanking him upward. "I won't report you. That is, if you do us a turn. We need a distraction..."

* * *

><p>The horrified crowd gathered to tut and whisper as, between the orchestra's polanaise and schottische, dear Jimbo spun the gold Renaissance harp toward him and began plunking out a medley of bar-room favourites. And so, amidst Viv's jaunty chorus of "Knees Up Mother Brown", Potter and I snuck past the ballroom and into Father's library. Well, almost.<p>

"Potter! Stop singing along and get your arse over here!"

"Sorry!" he said, lifting his hoops with both hands and sprinting toward me. I groaned.

Shutting the high oaken double-doors behind us, we entered the dark, moonlit room. I immediately felt unwelcome: this room was _his_ alone, and neither Mother nor I were ever allowed inside. I had gotten caught once as a young child playing in here with my spinning top and was promptly thrown in the dungeons for three days with only the servant's menu for meals. Undue torture indeed. I shall never forget the cruel taste of a Lancashire hotpot.

The room itself was two stories high, with rolling ladders and an upper landing. The French windows reached nearly to the ceiling and allowed us enough light for sleuthing.

"Where do we start?" Potter asked, taking off his heels so they wouldn't _clack_ and echo on the marble. "It's enormous. And we don't even know what we're looking for."

"Evidence. Evidence he's involved. If Father's hiding anything, it'll be in here, I'm sure of it."

And fortunately, it wasn't actually _that _difficult to locate, after all. It took us an hour or so, with Potter chastising me for every other book he came across ("_How to Torture Muggles_ by G. F. Horace? Malfoy!"). But eventually I spotted it.

It should have been obvious, really. We don't do spiralbound notebooks in the Wizarding world.

"Potter, over here! My god!" He rushed down from the balcony, skidding to a halt on his nylon stockings. "It was tucked away in his attaché. Oh Jesus."

I sat down slowly and heavily at his escritoire, trying to digest precisely what this all meant. Well, I _knew_ what it meant; I just didn't want to believe it. Squeezing the book in my hands, I breathed in deeply, speechless, wishing everything could just go back to how it was, wishing I could tuck myself into my eiderdown tonight and sleep in my own room, and wishing my Father were not the fucking bastard he's turned out to be!

"Come on, Malfoy, now's not the time to go soft," he said, snatching the book from me. Reading the title, he exclaimed: "Oh shit!"

_Eunice-Mae Brown's Book of Conjure._

"Malfoy..."

"I know."

He opened the book. "Oh god. It gets worse. The inscription. Fuck!"

I grabbed the book from him. Scrawled on the back of the cover was a note.

_To my dear Sammie-Joe. I hope this book helps you through your journey in the sacred art of Conjure._

_ ―Eunice-Mae_

The book belonged to Leroy's mother. _Fuck._ And Eunice-Mae Brown had been her teacher in sorcery, likely back in Mississippi.

"But how did your father get hold it?" Potter asked.

"I don't know, but these spells are much more useful than Sammie-Joe's impotence curses and 'Favourable Divorce Settlement' charms." I flipped through the pages. "Necromancy. Demon summoning. Eternal youth. It's all here."

"There's a bookmark, Malfoy. Go there."

What I found, nothing could have prepared me for. Circled by my Father's own ink was a spell called "Total Transformation". There was all sorts of incantations and fancy rituals, but the main requisite was blood sacrifice.

_Souls, essences,_ it read, _cannot disappear, cannot vanish from existence, for these are among the most powerful forces ever created. There is no total elimination of a soul but only a total __transformation. In order for this, another soul must be captured as it leaves its body and imprinted upon the soul to be transformed._

I went pale when I read the means for this. _Slit the throat, and draw the blood into a jar, chanting thrice all the while: "Come, come, spirit. Into the blood I commend you." Seal the jar with haste, marking a pentagram upon the lid. This will imprison the soul. You must then collect the essence of he or she you wish to transform: this essence may be his semen, if male, or her menstrual blood or breast milk, if female. _

"That's why my wank tissues were suddenly cleared away."

"Ew, Malfoy, too much information."

Potter read out the rest: "'A mixture of the blood and essence is to be made and then the jar resealed. And when the sun dims to orange, bury the jar at a crossroads, where one road leads to death and the other to life. By dawn, the transformation will be complete.' Fuck me, Malfoy. It really was your dad all along. But _why?_"

I shook my head, still in shock. Of course, I'd already suspected Father had a hand in it, but I had no idea he was the murderer as well.

"And, why did he want to transform your essence?" Potter continued. "If he wanted rid of you, why didn't he just kill you?"

"I don't know. I don't bloody know!" I was shouting now, which was very unbecoming, and I forced myself into composure. "Things aren't adding up. Why would he do this to me? My own father." I thrust a hand through my hair and swore aloud. "What have I done to make him do this?"

I felt Potter's hand lay on my shoulder from behind. His voice was resolute when it came. "We'll figure it out, Malfoy. Together. I promise."

I turned and looked up at him, surprised to see Potter as a large-chested woman in a hoop skirt. Seems I'd forgotten we had polyjuiced ourselves.

I pulled away, sneering at him as best I could. But, for some stupid reason, I did believe him, and it eased the blow.


End file.
